Smoke Screen
by Andi Horton
Summary: It's done. It's finally done. The sequel to Five Years, and Fifty Lilac Bushes. Less running, but the same amount of problems. COMPLETE! Thank for your patience and support.
1. Prologue

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- I have decided to make the epilogue from Five Years and Fifty Lilac Bushes (the prequel) the prologue for this, just so everybody knows exactly where I am at this moment, okay? And, since I'm the author, I can do that, so- I did.

Basically the same genre as Five Years- PG, S/V, suspense, romance, and all the wonderful things that should be happening on Alias . . .

So maybe you've read the epilogue already- read it again. I want you to be good and ready for Chapter One! I will warn you, however- after Chapter One makes its debut sometime this week, updates will be slow. Very slow. Painfully slow, even. You might actually want to wait until I've finished my Recess crossover, and have posted a few of the little fics I'm working on at the moment. However, if you want to hang off the edge of your seat in anticipation (at least, I hope you'll be hanging off the edge of your seat in anticipation!) by all means, let me know how much you want to see some more. The e-mail address is abi_gal7@yahoo.ca and I would love to hear from you.

Now get good and ready for another adventure; length, as usual, currently indeterminate . . .

***

*** 

It's hard to say when, exactly, things more or less settled back to the way they were. It took longer than I had thought it would, since Mike had to come clean about what we had done for a living, and people were a little unsure of how to treat us for a while. We even got a call from Devlin, suggesting that we relocate, but I told him exactly where _he_ would be relocating to if he tried to move us now, so he let the matter drop. I was, I think, so especially vehement since this was the first time in my life that I could be completely honest with my friends without fearing the repercussions, and I wasn't about to give that up.

They are, incidentally, all wonderful people as well as terrific friends- after a couple months or so of slight uncertainty, you'd have never guessed that anything was different from the way it was before. I may be getting one or two more calls to baby sit than I usually do, but nothing I'm not thrilled to handle. I've also agreed to help out with the Pioneer program as fall rolls around, so I'm certainly going to be keeping busy. I suppose, really, that I need to- otherwise, I might get bored, and it's when I get bored that things start to happen. The last time I got bored I got up half an hour earlier than usual to go jogging, and I ended up getting tossed off a bridge and losing a good portion of my memory, so- busy is good.

Now, though, I'm still tired enough from our ordeal that relaxation is even better than busy. And miraculously, I have found time in which to relax- Dad is still enjoying himself - and Mom - across the Atlantic, Mike is at school putting the last of his papers in order before his summer vacation officially ends next week, and Emily has finally settled down to nap. I'm in a quiet, peaceful house that's just begging me to take some time to myself, and it doesn't have to ask twice.

I've just turned on the television and flopped down in front of it to fall asleep, Donovan at my feet and Francie on my shoulder (well, half on my shoulder, and half draped across the back of the couch) when the telephone rings. I feel relaxation slipping away, and my eyes cross with anger at the sensation.

I momentarily wish that I could pretend I'm not home.

Instead, I get to my feet, and head to the kitchen. If it's Dad, and I let it keep ringing, he'll panic, and even if it's not Dad, and the phone keeps ringing, Emily will wake up and start crying, and she'll know for sure that I'm home, so she won't stop until I go up there to comfort her. If it's a friend, they'll be sure to understand my reluctance to speak for long, and if it's a telemarketer, they won't want to let me speak for long once they've heard the sort of things that I'll be saying anyway.

"Hello?" I say testily, once I've snatched the phone from the wall mount, and a bored-sounding woman queries,

"Is Mr. Vaughn in, please?"

"No, I'm sorry, he's out at the moment. Is there a message?"

__

A brief_ message_? I add silently.

"Yes, if you could please tell him that we have an update for him concerning information he requested three months ago?"

"Fine. May I ask who is calling, please?"

"San Quentin prison facility, Ma'am. Political prisoners division."

My heart slows as it freezes to a block of ice, heavy and cold in my chest cavity.

"I- I'm sorry?"

"San Quentin Prison, Ma'am."

"Yes, I- may I ask what information it was that my husband requested?"

"He wanted prisoner status for a Mr.-" she breaks off, as if reading a name, "Sark?"

No. Way.

"What- what information do you have for him concerning Mr. Sark, please?"

"Mr. Sark, it was discovered this morning, has escaped from our facility. Now, of course we have men out after him, and re-apprehension is expected to occur within twenty-four hours, but since your husband did call us, we thought-"

I slam the phone down, my hands trembling.

So.

It's not over yet.

***

***

Well? Ready for Chapter One yet? I'm workin' on it! It's almost completely done now, and hopefully will be up before Friday- hopefully also it will be all right- there are definitely going to be some plot twists in this one. I'd love to keep them all in North America if I could - in Canada would be even better - but knowing the Vaughn/Bristow clan as we do, I guess you'll agree with me that it would be next to impossible. We'll see, though, how long I can keep 'em put . . .

The title? There's a point to it. You'll see soon enough. Hehe. Some of you might get mad at me . . .

Okeydokee, here we go- AliasisnotmineitneverwillbetoobadsosaditbelongstoABCTouchtoneandwascreatedbyJJAbramsBadRobotProductionsIstillhatethatname.

Get it? Got it? Good.

Watch for more- coming soon, I promise!


	2. Chapter One

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Here goes- hope you like it! Oh, and to honour my little tradition, the last few paragraphs of the previous chapter are included before we get to the good stuff- not that there's too much of it yet. Just opening up, getting settled back into the storyline, and really feeling like writing something kinda sappy. I think I succeeded . . .

I am ever so grateful for the feedback you have already given me, even though it was nothing you hadn't seen before. I'm a little nervous, though- what if you don't like this as much as you liked Five Years? I mean, I'll be posting Smoke Screen as the actual show is airing, which is a lot more pressure for me, not to mention I have more homework than any one person has any right to expect. For these reasons, I am especially desperate for feedback, so if you wanted to leave it here, or maybe even send me an e-mail at abi_gal7@yahoo.ca I would be in seventh heaven.

Now, I can't promise there won't be Author's Notes as I write, but to cut down on an excessive amount of annoying chatter (I mean, any more than I'm already planning to force you to endure), the next time you'll see disclaimers and story info like rating, genre, etc. is in the final chapter, or epilogue- whichever comes last. Kay?

Now, read it, and give some reviews. Please! I'm going to need them!

***

*** 

"Mr. Sark, it was discovered this morning, has escaped from our facility. Now, of course we have men out after him, and re-apprehension is expected to occur within twenty-four hours, but since your husband did call us, we thought-"

I slam the phone down, my hands trembling.

So.

It's not over yet.

***

At some point in time I manage to get Emily up from her nap, and somehow keep her out of trouble for the rest of the day. This last fact is especially amazing, because she's rolling now (Yes, rolling. Most babies crawl, but apparently some will roll instead, and we, it seems, have ourselves a roller) and she's hard enough to keep tabs on when I'm coherent, much less going out of my mind. And whatever I am now, I am certainly not coherent.

In fact, I'm so out of it that I'm quite frankly amazed I haven't tried to water Donovan and Francie, and let the plants outside for a run, much less put Emily up on the shelf with all the winter hats we dug out of the attic yesterday. I do, however, manage to not burn the place to the ground, and when Mike comes home, I can almost pretend that everything is normal.

Almost.

"Hi, honey," I say, as he comes in through the door, looking a little odd since he's wearing shorts and a T-shirt, but is lugging a briefcase and armload of books, "how was your-"

Well, I tried.

He manages to catch me before I fall, and I have to give him credit for that, because it's been a few months since my knees supposedly kicked that annoying little habit of giving out on me just when I need them the most.

"It was fine, sweetheart," he says calmly, hauling me into the couch, and nearly tripping over Emily as she hurtles past us, a rotating little blur as she heads for the front hall, "and yours? It was stressful, I take it?"

"You have no idea," I sigh, leaning back against the cushions.

"Why? Did Emily knock over the end table again?"

"No. I got a phone call, though."

"Oh, was it your dad? He hasn't called for two or three days now, has he?"

"No, he hasn't. The last I heard, there was a potential buyer for the villa. Some Egyptian businessman who seemed very interested- Mom is looking at that Yorkshire property she wanted so badly right now.

"He also said that he and Mom are getting more comfortable with each other now- he says they've been going out on little lunch dates every day, and to the theatre at nights, and all the things that they used to do together. It's wonderful, really, that some things never change. He says that in many ways, it's as if they haven't even been apart, they fit so well together. As if they really were made for each other . . ."

I trail off, regroup, and continue.

"It was a call from a- a woman. In California."

"I deny it!" he jokes. "Whatever she says we had together, it's been over for years, and-"

"No, Mike, shut up. I'm serious."

He nods, sobering, then we both look up quickly at the sound of a crash, and Francie yowling. Emily's little giggles float around the corner, and we decide that nobody's in any immediate danger, so we remain where we are.

"When she starts walking, we're getting a leash for her," Mike warns, and I nod my agreement.

"Done. But listen- this woman. She said that in- in June, I think it was, you called down to San Quentin to get some information on- to- to find out about Sark?"

He's still, suddenly. Horribly, terribly still.

"Yes."

"And- and she said . . ." I want to tell him, but I don't want to, and I find that I can't. My mouth is frozen right where it is, and no words are coming out. They don't have to, though. He's stiff, and still, and he knows.

"When?"

I shrug. I manage sound.

"I- today? I think she said . . . And she said that she thinks they'll catch him again in- in a day, and so it's fine, probably, but this isn't some run-of-the-mill murderer, Mike, it's - wow, I can't believe I just said that."

"What- a day?"

"No, run-of-the-mill-murderer. Is that what this life has done to us? Can murders actually be classified as- as mundane?"

Mike considers.

"You raise an interesting point."

"That's what I mean! Can we actually be sitting here, as if we were discussing the weather, instead of some escapee who is probably on his way here right now?"

"Well, I'd give him a week, at least," Mike suggests. "I mean, they'll probably be watching the air terminals. He'll have to hitch a ride if he doesn't want to walk."

I shudder.

"I hope he gets run down by a transport trailer."

"Nice a thought as it is," he says calmly, "we probably should be a little more realistic, and consider the fact that he may be able to make it without mishap. Do you want us to go away for a while?"

"No, Mike, not again." I plead. "We're just settling in from last time. Classes start up for both of us in a week or two, and I promised that I would take a Pioneer class, and we're still taking shifts in the nursery- they really need us here, Mike. And we need them. They're not just our friends, they're what's holding us together most of the time. They're the things that are normal about us. The things that are real. We've got a life here, Mike, and we can't just keep putting it on hold every time somebody from our as turns up as a possible threat."

I take a few deep breaths to calm myself, then speak again.

"If they haven't caught him in a few weeks, and we find out that he's definitely heading here, I might want to consider going to stay with Mom for a while, but otherwise- please, can't we just stay as we are?"

"Of course we can," he says softly. "It's just that I was wondering if- you know, if maybe you wouldn't feel a bit more comfortable getting away for a while, until it's over, but you answered my question quite clearly. Now- how about Emily? Do you want to ask your parents to take her? Or- my mother could."

"I-" I hesitate, considering carefully. More than anything else, I want so very badly for her to be safe. Sark, though, more likely than not has no idea where we even are at the moment - we don't even know for sure that he's planning on coming after us - so I feel reasonably confident to reply reassuringly.

"I- don't think so, Mike. I mean, she's just starting at Rhonda's day care in two weeks, and you know that as she gets a bit bigger, and can notice things there, she and Hannah will have so much fun together- I don't think she's in any danger here, really. I mean, not yet, at least. Look- if there is even the slightest hint of a threat, we'll send Emily and your mother to France. How does that sound? They'll fit right in- your mother won't attract any attention at all. But for now, I just want to keep her close to me."

He nods, and smiles.

"I do, too. I just wanted to be sure. So- we just try to relax, is that it?"

"Yes. Oh- not yet, though, You have to tell me how your day went. Did you get everything sorted out?"

"Mostly. I'm kind of hoping, though, that you might feel up to coming in and helping me shelve the books tomorrow. That's the one thing left to do, and if we get it done in the morning, we'll have all afternoon to spend with each other, plus my last four days of freedom. How does that sound?"

I smile, and reach up to bring his face down to a more kissable level.

"That sounds absolutely wonderful. Now, since we're done talking, how about if we get down to some serious relaxation, hmm?"

Before he can answer, though, there comes the yelp of a startled Bulldog, a crash, and plaintive, wailing cries. I wince.

"Hold that thought," Mike sighs, and, hand in hand, we go to investigate.

Emily, it turns out, has upset one of the kitchen stools that sit around our island onto Donovan, who is yelping and scrabbling at his oversized necklace, trying to get free. Emily, in turn, has her little hand caught under the leg, and is more scared than anything, bawling her head off until her daddy scoops her up to his chest, and dances around the kitchen with her, making funny faces, while I struggle to free Donovan.

"You," I gasp, tugging at the stool, "had better go on a diet, buddy. You are way too wide for your own good."

He only eyes me reproachfully, and actually succeeds in making me embarrassed that I even said anything to begin with.

"Great. There, you're free." I pant at last, popping it over his head. He gives brisk little shake, and immediately looks around for his playmate of a minute previously.

"Don't give her back to him," I warn Mike, then see there is no fear of that happening- he is crossing his eyes at his little girl, sticking his tongue out, and making her shriek with laughter.

I note with pride that she is holding her head up extremely well now, and soft, dark-gold hair is starting to wisp down around the tops of her tiny, shell-pink ears in perfect, translucent curls. Her eyes are mine, undeniably, and full of her father's sparkle as she watches his face, fascinated.

"She loves you," I observe, and Mike looks up, smiling.

"Yeah. I know."

"I love you, too," I add, more quietly, and his face softens even further.

"I know, Sweetheart."

He brings her over so I can brush the top of her head with my fingertips, and then lift my face to his so he can kiss me.

"You- you're sure you don't want to-" he begins, but I shake my head so firmly, he would hardly dare to continue.

"I am positive. We are staying right here. Now, why don't we start supper? Dad has just got to call us tonight, since he'll have to come home in time to get ready for his students, and we still don't know what Mom will be doing."

"I," Mike says, once he has set Emily down and put up a baby gate on the hall doorway, which is the only one still unblocked, "would guess that she is coming with him. Just my guess, of course, but- I don't know. Just a feeling."

"But what about her new house?"

"Oh, she'll go back, probably. But- I think she'll be here for a little while, at least."

"Yeah?" I look at him, unable to disguise how pleased I am.

I want very few things more desperately than I want to get to know my mother better- my real mother. Not the sweet, innocent literature professor I thought she was, or the sadistic Russian killing machine I had feared she was, but the practical, analytical, rather soft-hearted, well-bred woman I had begun to get to know when spending time with her over the summer. She isn't one, or the other, exactly, but somewhere in between, and I am determined to find exactly where in between she is.

Mike continues to amaze me in that respect. She killed his father. She admits it, and has apologized for it, as well as for her apology itself, since an apology seems a little crass when it's directed at the son of the man you murdered.

Yet Mike, if anything, was quicker to forgive her than I, and I cannot admire him enough for it. In many ways he's much stronger than I am. I hold on to things, and let them eat away at me until I make myself sick, or Mike or Dad tells me to snap out of it. Mike, on the other hand, tends to let go more easily. He doesn't bother to deny that he misses his father, but he could never be so petty as to begrudge me time with my mother, even though she did such an unspeakable thing to him.

I love my husband.

***

Dinner is light and cold. It's meant to be light and hot, but ever since Emily started cutting her teeth I have had to switch to feeding her from bottles, and she has recently begun holding the bottle on her own. She isn't too good at it, though, so every time she drops it - and she does so frequently - Mike or I have to dive to retrieve it, rinse off the nipple, and then give it back to her. As a result, we find that by the time we are actually able to finish it, our soup has gotten quite cold. But it's all the same by the time it gets down to your stomach, though, right? At least, that's what we keep telling ourselves . . .

After the dishes are cleared away, I change Emily, we go out into the backyard. There we lay a blanket on the lawn for her to roll on while I examine the last of my roses, and Mike tries to convince Donovan to at least bring back a _piece_ of the stick (he's got this problem. Whenever Mike tries to throw a stick for him, he eats it. All of it. Tennis balls are fine, and so are Frisbees, but sticks, it seems, are an excellent source of fiber, or something).

I have just plucked off the last of the withered leaves when Donovan turns from a pitying perusal of my husband, who is lying flat on his stomach in an attempt to demonstrate the proper stick-fetching method, to take off for the side gate, barking madly.

I freeze, of course, and shoot Mike a frightened look. He jumps up, and gestures for me to go right away to grab Emily, which I do. Then he points toward the far fence, and I nod. If he gives any signal of trouble at all, I'm to run for it, no questions asked.

Holding Emily under my chin, I watch as he heads cautiously for the gate. He is out of sight for only a second before he returns, and waves me over.

"Sydney, it's fine. It's just- well, come and see for yourself."

I walk over, around the side of the house, and come face to face with the last person in the world I had expected to see standing in my side yard at that point in time.

My father.

He's sun-browned, smiling, and looking even fitter than he did when I last saw him, if that's possible. He lets out a delighted laugh when he sees the expression of utter disbelief on my face.

"Hey, Sweetheart, are you surprised?"

"You might say that," I gasp, as he sweeps both Emily and me into a crunching hug before he holds out his hands for his granddaughter, and I oblige him.

"I told you she would be!" he calls over his shoulder, and I see Mom come running through the gate, all suntan and smiles, the two of them looking for all the world as if they just got back from Bermuda or some other such honeymoon destination.

"Well, I thought you might have guessed what he was up to after he called you daily for two months, and then suddenly stopped," Mom smiles. "But I suppose with the baby, and school starting up again, you might not have thought that he would be trying to surprise you, and- oh, but look at you, Sweetheart!"

She pulls me towards her for a hug, and then goes to kiss the air beside Mike's cheek. Mike, considering he's probably rarely, if ever, had the air beside his cheek kissed before, handles it very well, and then turns to talk to my father once Emily has been passed to her cooing grandmother.

"How was the flight?" he wonders, and Dad shrugs.

"Oh, it was decent. I convinced Laura to sell that waste of jet fuel she called a private plane along with the villa, so we came on the public airline, and of course that meant delays, but nothing we couldn't handle, right, Dear?"

"Mmm-hmm." Mum said absently, largely preoccupied with the little bundle of joy she was holding to her cheek. "Oh, would you just look at her! She's gotten so big, hasn't she, Jack?"

"Yes, she has. She'll be walking before you know it," he predicts, and I laugh.

"Oh, I don't think she'll walk before she's a year old. All she's doing right now is rolling."

"Yes," Dad muses, "I believe you mentioned that. It should be- interesting to see."

"I'm enjoying it," Mike admits. "It's not going to be that long until she _is_ a year old, and ready to start running off on her own. I think that we'll be investing in a few more deadbolts before then."

"When was her birthday, again?" Mom asks, wrinkling her forehead, and Mike supplies her with the date.

"She was born the twenty-eighth of February. So she's six months old as of next week."

"What a _big_ girl!" Mom gasps at Emily, who beams proudly, blissfully unaware that in a few years she won't consider it to be such a wonderful compliment, "yes, you are _such_ a big girl!"

"So- did we miss anything while we were gone?" Dad wonders, and I shoot a nervous glance at Mike.

"Do you want to tell him?"

"Hardly," Mike frowns. "You do it. He's your father."

"Tell me what?" Dad asks, and there is suddenly a grim, sober note to his voice that hasn't been there in ages.

I take a deep breath.

"Well, I got a phone call today. A- rather disturbing one."

"A crank call?" Mom asks, and I shake my head.

"No, no crank. It was a woman from- from San Quentin."

"The prison?" Mom asks, bewildered, looking at Dad as if for guidance. Dad, though, has pulled a stony mask down over his face as he listens, no doubt dreading what he knows is coming next.

I continue to speak with difficulty.

"Mike- well, this summer, before we knew it was Cole who was- bothering us- well, Mike called San Quentin. He wanted to see if- if maybe Sark had gotten out. We thought that maybe- well, that it might have been him."

"I can understand that," Mom frowns. "But- it wasn't."

"No, it wasn't."

"So then what does that have to do with-"

"Well, they called back today, because they'd taken Mike's name, and I guess that it had been logged into Sark's file, or something, because they called us to notify us that- well, that he had escaped."

"Sark?" Mom blinks. "He- he escaped."

"Yes."

"He's loose?" she verifies, as if maybe, should the question be phrased differently, the answer will change.

"Yes."

"I see. And- you think he'll be coming here."

"Wouldn't you?" I ask somewhat testily, and Mom considers.

"Maybe, if I didn't know him very well. But do you really think he would be so stupid? I mean, you have Michael and Jack with you, and it isn't as if you aren't able to take care of yourself, my dear. And now, besides them and yourself- well," she blushes slightly, "now you have me, too."

"What?" I look at her, surprised.

She, in turn, glances up at Dad who is actually smiling through the worry lines etched on his face.

"Do you want to tell her?" she wonders, but Dad shakes his head.

"No, you," he urges, so she turns to me, still blushing, and now smiling somewhat self-consciously.

"Well- your father and I- when he was helping me look over my new house, and- and we were in Yorkshire, we- well, we renewed our vows. It's legal for sure, now. We are officially re-married."

"Really?" I gape at both of them in utter, amazed delight. "Mom, Dad, that's fantastic! I can't believe you- that- well- congratulations! Only-" I break off, frowning, now. "Where are you going to live?"

"Well," Mom admits, "we're still debating that one. I really am in love with this little cottage of mine-"

"Cottage!" Dad snorts. "It's twice the size of Sydney and Mike's house, Laura, and you know it."

"But," Mom goes on, unperturbed, passing Emily to Dad at his insistence, "I do like your father's place, and of course to be near you all would be a dream come true. So- we have yet to settle for sure on a verdict, but for now, we're keeping both, and I'm here to move some of my things into the apartment, and give it a thorough upheaval before the Christmas season gets underway."

"You'll be here for Christmas?"

I can't believe that it can all be true. I wanted it so desperately for so long, but now that it's actually happening, I'm almost afraid to believe that it's real.

"Of course I will!" she smiles. "Jack has signed a contract with the University for this year, and I would never ask him to break it. And of course I'll be staying with him, so I'll be here all year."

"Mom . . ." I bite my lip, unsure of how to go on, but as it turns out, I don't have to. She's already enfolded me in her arms, and Mike and Dad watch uncertainly as I cry onto her shoulder. She pats my back, and I feel her smile against my neck.

"I was hoping," she chides teasingly, "that you would be _happy_, and here you are bursting into tears! How welcome do you think I feel, hmm, Sydney?"

Laughing, I pull back, and smile up at her (Mom was always tall to me when I was a little girl, and even now that I'm grown up, six feet is pretty darn tall) as I answer.

"I'm thrilled to pieces, and you know it. With you, Mike and Dad here, I feel safer than ever. Now, why don't you come inside? I feel like some tea."

"You drink tea?" Mom asks, as we head inside, Mike pausing only to gather Emily's blanket, and summon Donovan.

"My neighbour finally got me turned onto it," I admit. "I thought I would only ever drink Chai after this horrible incident in London a while ago, but as it turns out, orange pekoe isn't as bad as I remember it to be."

"That's because you always remembered it as being poisoned," Mike snorts, dropping the blanket inside the door before following us into the living room.

"Maybe," I allow. "Just maybe. But I can promise you this won't be, so- anybody?"

Mom accepts, but Dad and Mike opt for coffee, so before I trot off to the kitchen to get it ready, Mom offers to help so it will go quicker. I accept, and she joins me, leaving Mike and Dad to make fools of themselves over Emily.

"It's so good to see you again," she smiles at me, once we're in the kitchen and I have directed her to the coffee percolator. "It seemed a little strange that I should miss you when I'd only spent a month or so here, but- well, there it is. I missed you desperately- you, Michael, and Emily. It's funny," she adds musingly, "to have a family again. But- I'm thrilled to have you. All of you."

She stops, hesitating, as if searching for the right words.

"I suppose I rather took you and your father for granted when I had you all to myself. Then the order came for me to leave, and I didn't even have time to fully appreciate what I was giving up before I lost it. I spent years regretting it, Sydney. Now- well, it's like a gift."

I smile up at her.

"That's how I feel, too." I tell her quietly. "A wonderful, wonderful gift."

Mom gives a little, choking laugh, and wipes quickly at a sparkle in the corner of her eye.

"Well," she says a little breathlessly, "let's get this coffee on, shall we?"

I smile, and nod, and reach for the bag of whole beans.

"Here. The grinder is in that cupboard, there, and could you pass me the kettle also?"

She obliges, and as she grinds out enough beans for Mike and Dad, I set the water to boil, and rummage through the pantry.

"Would you like orange pekoe," I ask presently, "or lemon, or strawberry?"

"Just orange pekoe, please. Unless- what are you having?"

"Well," I say dubiously, "I was thinking of getting rid of the strawberry myself, but if you want regular tea, of course-"

"No," she cuts in firmly, "I think strawberry sounds wonderful."

I smile.

"Strawberry, then. Have you got those beans ready?"

She has, so I help her set up the percolator, and she locates a tea pot, two cups, and two coffee beakers before popping over to check on the water.

"It's hot," she observes, "but not boiling. It should be really boiling before it's used."

"I remember," I say, "you always said that when I was little. Every day, you would have tea with your breakfast, and every time I told you that I wanted to help you make it, you would tell me that the water had to be really boiling, or else it just wouldn't be tea at all. It's stuck with me- well, it seems like forever, really, since now, whenever I make tea, I just can't bring myself to take the kettle off until the water is really boiling."

Mom laughs, and peeks again in the pot.

"Well, I'm glad you feel that way, because we have a ways to go yet. Do you want to go back into the living room, and join our gentlemen, or wait out here?"

"Let's wait here," I urge her. "We can sit, and just talk."

Mom nods, pleased, as if this was what she had wanted as well, so we sit at the kitchen table and eye each other over my less-than-artistic centerpiece of a wooden napkin rack, made by one of Mike's students in his shop class.

The youngest of four sons, the boy said his mother already had enough napkin racks, and had wondered if I would like one. I hadn't had the heart to tell him I already had one, and accepted this with every gravity due such a generous gift.

Now, I see Mom glancing at it, so I relate its history, drawing a delighted laugh from her.

"It must be wonderful," she says wistfully, "to have so many people who are friends, whom you trust . . ."

"It's nice," I agree. "It really is. It's especially nice that they finally know who - what, I guess - we really are, and they're still willing to accept us. I think- I think I was worried for a while that they wouldn't, you know? That they only liked who they thought we were. But now I know they like _us_, and I don't think I couldn't possibly be any happier."

"I'm so glad to hear that, Sydney." Mom says sincerely. "Because I want so badly for you to be happy. Heaven knows there's no reason you should believe me, with everything I've done to you over the years, but please believe me when I say that, above all else, I honestly do want you to be happy."

"I do believe you," I reassure her. "I want the exact same for you and Dad. Are you- this is working out, is it?"

"Yes." She blushes like a teenager, and I have to laugh as she goes on, sounding absurdly self-conscious at first, yet increasingly pleased with herself.

"Yes, it- it really is. We were incredibly compatible from- from the very start. Perhaps it was a mistake, assigning me to somebody who was such a perfect match, but it was done, and I fell in love with him, Sydney. He was everything I wanted in my husband, and the thought that someday I would have to give him up . . ."

She shakes her head, obviously pained.

"It just about killed me. So it's really a dream come true, to have him back after all these years."

I look at Mom, and I suddenly feel an urge to try to imagine her and Dad on their wedding day. I've seen several pictures, of course - Mom was beautiful, and absolutely, radiantly, glowing. Dad looked ready to burst with joy - but somehow, I know that they only tell a fragment or two of the whole story. I only wish I could have been there.

I am interrupted by the sound of the kettle whistling. Mom stands, and checks it.

"Boiling," she announces, pleased. "Want to pass me the pot?"

I do, and she pours the water in, then tosses a few tea bags into its steaming depths before slipping the tea cozy over top of it, and turning to check the coffee.

"Hm. Got a while to go yet."

"Only if we were waiting for a full pot," I reassure her, "and we don't want a full pot. Why don't we just pour out what's here, and then turn it off?"

She agrees, so while she's pouring, I locate some cookies that are probably too old to still be in the house, put them on a plate, and assemble everything on a tray.

"Look good to you?" I ask Mom, and she nods, satisfied.

"Very. Will you carry it, or will I?"

"I will." I pick it up as she walks ahead of me to the living room, but I don't get very far, since in less than five seconds she is back, laughter dancing in her eyes.

"Sydney, you'll never believe-" she breaks off, shaking her head.

"What?" I ask, mystified. "What is it?"

"Shh," she says, tugging on my arm, "put the tray down and come see."

I do, and follow her in to the living room. There, I see Dad and Mike on the couch, both of them sound asleep, their heads tilting towards each other. Emily is cradled between them, also dozing, and the dog and cat flank them on the floor and arm of the couch respectively, making it really a ridiculously adorable picture.

"Do you have a camera?" Mom asks, still obviously delighted by the scene in front of us, and I nod.

"Just a second, and I'll get it."

It only takes me a minute to dig it out from the back of our closet, and carry it downstairs. We take two shots of the sleeping beauties before Mom gets an even better idea.

"Does it have a timer on it? So you can set it to take the picture at a certain time?"

"Yes." I look at her flushed, animated face, mystified.

"Will you set it, then? So we can be in it, too."

I set it, propping the camera up on a stack of books on the coffee table. Mom and I have ten seconds to get into position- she slides in behind Dad, fitting her arm through his, and closing her own eyes so she looks as if she, too, is sound asleep. I position myself behind Mike, laying my cheek down against the back of his neck and closing my own.

Later I will see that, just before the flash goes off, Francie has crept closer to Mom, and curled up against her. Donovan has settled his head on top of my foot. And Mike has tilted his head forward just a bit, so all four of us are centered directly on Emily, who is still sleeping like - well - a baby.

But now, as the flash goes off and ever-so-briefly lights up the back of my eyelids, all I can think of is how truly blessed I am to have this family- so much more than I deserve, and so much more than I had ever dared to dream of. It is, I think, up until now, at least, truly the most perfect moment of my life.

The bad part though, I have learned, about perfect moments, is that it is when things are at their very best that they can only possibly get worse . . .

***

***

Well? Whatcha think? Tell me! Any feedback you can give me on my writing technique is especially appreciated, since writing is kinda my career goal, but if you just plain wanna say you liked it, far be it from me to think about stopping you.

As promised, I will not be doing my usual disclaimer blurb here again until the final chapter, or epilogue, or whatever. If you are hard up for some disclaimers, or you forget who Alias belongs to, or you just want to read something else, go back to the prologue, and read the one there. Or, if you want to read numerous variations of the same disclaimer over and over, check out my other fics. In fact, even if you don't care about disclaimers, you should go and check the fics out- I myself think that they're reasonably well written, but there's always room for more input, if you felt so inclined . . .

Keep watching for chapter two! Hopefully it won't be too long coming!


	3. Chapter Two

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Here goes- chapter two! Sorry, though, still not much action. Of course, if you've read Five Years you'll know the action is going to take a little while, and even when it happens, it will mostly be running. For some reason, I always seem to mess up action. I think I'd be much better at directing or choreographing it than I am at writing it, but I guess I'll never know.

Anyway, I hope you stick with me, even if it takes a little while to pick up speed! Now read, and please don't forget to leave me a review (oh, and a heartfelt thank you to the many people who already have, and continue to do so. Your feedback means so much to me).

***

*** 

Later I will see that, just before the flash goes off, Francie has crept closer to Mom, and curled up against her. Donovan has settled his head on top of my foot. And Mike has tilted his head forward just a bit, so all four of us are centered directly on Emily, who is still sleeping like - well - a baby.

But now, as the flash goes off and ever-so-briefly lights up the back of my eyelids, all I can think of is how truly blessed I am to have this family- so much more than I deserve, and so much more than I had ever dared to dream of. It is, I think, up until now, at least, truly the most perfect moment of my life.

The bad part though, I have learned, about perfect moments, is that it is when things are at their very best that they can only possibly get worse . . .

***

If I had thought that it was strange to spend a few days at my cottage with my mother, it's nothing compared to living in the same town as she does. Strange, and wonderful.

As school starts up for Mike again, and he has to wear long pants even in the sweltering heat of an Indian summer, I take advantage of my extra week off to spend as much time at Dad's apartment as I can. In between getting my own lesson plans back into order and trying to keep dust from settling in our house, I help Mom evaluate Dad's entire decorating scheme, and come up with a feasible alternative to the rather uncompromising theme that runs throughout his apartment.

"I want so badly to knock that whole wall out," she complained to me at one point, gesturing at the living room picture window, "but he signed this stupid damage deposit when he first began leasing the place, so I can't touch the darn thing. I even have to get all my paint choices pre-approved, if you can believe that. I mean, could I possibly make it look worse?"

Actually, Dad's apartment isn't that bad. It's just very dark, and masculine, and that's really how he likes it. It was all he could do to convince her to let him keep his furniture, and that was only effected with the promise of a new, cream-coloured leather sofa.

"Though why he wants more leather . . ." Mom had frowned, but let it go.

And, when I wasn't at home, in my class, or acting as assistant decorator, I was at the church. They were re-painting a downstairs room that had formerly been a truly alarming turquoise, changing the colour to a more sedate beige.

"Some of our seniors were getting shocked each time they came in," Rose had explained when she'd recruited me to hold ladders and carry paint buckets, "so once we'd decided the lawsuit for a heart attack would cost more, we scraped together enough money to do something about it."

Suffice to say that, with all of the projects I had on the go, I managed to keep fairly busy. When my university classes started up again, and Emily started going to a day care run by a close friend of ours, I was especially preoccupied, and then the Pioneer class took up what little time I had left.

That is why, what with one thing and another, as the heat of the summer slowly turned crisp and cool, and a rich, warm palette of red and gold leaves began to dust our streets, I'll admit I lost my nervous edge somewhat. I started to relax, and forget about the phone call I'd received that upset me so. Time will heal all things, I suppose, but sometimes it numbs them as well, and when you have a past like I do, that isn't always such a good thing.

It was getting close to October when one night, Mike and I were so - erm - preoccupied that we forgot to set our alarm clock, and so slept in the next day.

"I told you that we'd forget!" I storm as we run back and forth across the room, jumping into pants and tugging shirts on as fast as we can, "didn't I tell you we would?"

"It isn't the first time it's happened, either," Mike mutters, peering in the mirror and obviously deciding that he doesn't need to shave today. "You think we'd know better by now."

"What, to remember to set our alarm, or to save it for holidays?" I wonder, then look down. "Whose pants am I wearing?"

Mike looks up.

"Mine."

"Oh, man-"

"No, leave 'em on," he shrugs. "I've already got mine on, and we are horrifically late. Breakfast?"

"I'll stop at Tim's," I promise. "You?"

"I'll see if the school breakfast program has anything left over on my break," he smiles. "You dropping Emily off?"

"Uhh . . ." I check my watch. "I'll take her with me, and call from the car to have Mum to come pick her up. Otherwise, I'll never make it."

"Right."

I grab Emily, stuff her into an extra sleeper, make sure the diaper bag contains all the necessities, and pass her to Mike to put in the baby seat as I run downstairs to load the bag into the back of the car.

Then, once Mike has buckled her into the back, he leans over and gives me a kiss.

"I love you," he says sincerely- or at least, as sincerely as you can say it when you're unshaven, haven't showered, and your shirt is half sticking out of your pants.

"I love you, too," I smile. "And just for the record, I wouldn't want to save it just for holidays."

His smile widens.

"Me neither."

"Now, go," I instruct him, "or you'll be late."

He clambers into his car with a grin the size of Christmas on his face, and backs all the way out onto the street before he remembers to come back and get the books he'll need for the day.

***

One of the most beautiful things about the country of Canada is not its majestic wildlife, nor its breathtaking scenery, but a beautiful little franchise called Tim Hortons. It's a coffee and donut shop the likes of which has yet to be equaled by our Southern neighbours, and I am forever grateful that I live where I can have steady access to it. Sackville alone - being a University town, I suppose - has two, and both of them are rarely, if ever, not busy. I am one of their most frequent customers, and unfortunately for me, they know me by a lot more than name in there.

"Hey, Sydney," Rebecca smiles cheerfully at me from behind the counter, then takes in every detail of my appearance, and her grin changes to a knowing smirk.

"Sleep much?"

"You," I say coolly, "can just mind your own business, Missy, and give me a raisin bran muffin with an unhealthy amount of butter on it, and a double-double, please and thank-you."

"Coming up," she says, still smirking at me, then checks the clock to time the order.

"Hey," she says, surprised, when she sees what time it is, "you're going to be late."

"Don't I know it," I sigh, rummaging through the bottom of my purse once I discover I left my bank card elsewhere, scraping together the fee, "here. Can I owe you a nickel?"

"Sure," she shrugs. "Here's your order, and have a nice day."

I take the paper bag and the hot cup in the same hand, since the other is holding Emily's baby seat, and wish her a good day back. Then I force my way out the door, and perform something of an acrobatic number before finally getting everything into the car where it belongs, and sliding in behind the wheel.

My watch tells me I have two minutes to get to my class before my students start arriving, so I floor the accelerator. It's only about a hundred yards to my parking spot, and I've barely gotten the car stationed there before I'm jumping out, running around to free Emily, and tearing into the building. 

I make it into my class just as the first few students do, and one of them, a girl who boards with a family I know, offers to hold Emily while I get set up, and phone Mom on my cell, who promises that she'll be right there.

Then I stick Emily back into her seat, and turn to address the masses.

"Hey, everybody," I breathe, "glad to see you're all here on time. I'm sorry if I seem a little out of breath- I will admit, I slept in today. Now, as you will remember, yesterday we were concentrating on syntax and conjugation of verbs in speech, so why don't you all direct your attention to the overhead, and we'll continue from there?"

Emily is a little angel as I make my way through one and a half overheads before Mom pokes her head through the door, and gives us all an apologetic little smile and wave. I think that several male jaws hit the floor at that moment, and I give them all the glare I inherited from my father.

"May I," I say pointedly, "introduce my mother, Mrs. Laura Bristow?"

Some mouths are closed, but a few actually remain open. I suppose, really, that Mom looks fantastic for a woman of any age, and when you realise that she's sneaking up on sixty, you really have to slow down and take another look.

"Sorry," she breathes, coming all the way in, "won't be a second."

I see, as she hurries over to scoop up Emily, that she hasn't even bothered to remove her work clothes, but has come in paint-splattered capris and an old shirt of Dad's that she has rolled up to the elbows. Her hair is hastily tucked back under a kerchief, and she has a smudge of cranberry paint on the tip of her nose.

"Who wants to come with Grandma?" she wonders, and Emily waves her fists in the air- along with, I am ashamed to say, one or two of my students. Another nasty look on my part quells them before Mom can see as she stands, and turns to go.

"Sorry," she repeats sincerely, "we'll be going, now. I'll see you after classes, Sydney?"

"Yes, thanks, Mom," I smile, and, as she walks quickly out the door, I turn back to my students.

"Well," one of them says in frank admiration, "now I see whose side of the family YOU take after!"

It's going to be a long day.

***

Lunch time, when it comes, is welcome. Dad has already secured our usual table, and is calmly working away at his casserole as I make my way over, and sit with him.

"So?" he queries. "How is your day going so far?"

"Well," I remark, breaking my roll apart and slathering it with butter, "three or four of my boys were perfectly willing to try to pick up your wife-"

"They what?!" Dad looks so dangerous I wonder if I shouldn't have phrased it more delicately, or maybe even omitted that detail altogether.

"Sydney," he says warningly, "I don't find that-"

"No, Dad, I'm sorry, of course it isn't funny at all. She just came in to pick up Emily, and the boys- well, you know what Mom looks like, Dad! They were just a little distracted."

"Yes, fine, but what was Emily doing with you? Shouldn't she have been at day care?"

"Well, yes. That's where Mom was taking her. But Mike and I slept in, so I didn't have time to drop her off."

"You slept in?"

"Yeah, we forgot to set the alarm," I mumble, and quickly fill my mouth with a forkful of pasta, cheese and hamburger before Dad can quiz me further.

"All right," he says dubiously, letting it go, "but please tell me you haven't also forgotten a month from now. Or, more specifically, a month from last Saturday"

"A month from- oh, Thanksgiving! No, I didn't forget. Is dinner still on at your place, or won't you be ready by then?"

"We'll be ready," Dad promises. "Your mother has repeatedly assured me that we will be ready. I trust your mother. For the most part, anyway. You're coming, though?"

"What kind of a question is that? It's Thanksgiving! Of course we're coming! All three of us!"

"Good," Dad looks relieved. "We were just worried that you still might be a little uptight over the call."

"The call?"

"You know," he seems embarrassed to even be bringing it up, "the telephone call. About- Sark. It's been- well, it's been one month exactly since it came."

"Oh- yeah," my eyes narrow. "I hadn't thought- actually, I had mostly forgotten about it, Dad."

"That isn't advisable, Sydney," he frowns, and I nod, miserable.

"Yes, I know. But- well, it's so nice to be normal, Dad! I hate having to think that he's had enough time, now, to get up here. I don't like to remember how things used to be for all of us. I sometimes just wish I could pretend that it never happened."

"You tried that for four years," Dad points out, "and look where it got you. Kidnapped, and nearly killed. I think, Sydney, that honesty is not so much the _best_ policy as it is the _only_ policy."

"But we've already told our friends the truth, Dad, and-"

"I am not just speaking of your friends, Sydney, I am speaking as well of yourselves. You and Mike need to find a balance- acknowledging who you are, and where you have come from, and also realising that who you once were, while still a part of who you are now, isn't necessarily the person you will be down the road in a few years."

I smile slightly, and nod my acknowledgement of what he is saying.

"Fine, Dad, you're right. Are you ever not?"

"Sometimes," he says modestly, and I can't resist a snort of laughter.

"Oh, yeah, sure. Fine, then, Mr. Omnipotent, tell me this- will I be able to mark all of the oral examinations I'm conducting for the next two weeks in time for the Thanksgiving Break?"

Dad's face remains perfectly grave as he replies,

"There are some things, my child, that even the all-knowing cannot say . . ."

I throw my roll at him.

"You're crazy, Dad, you know that? Absolutely crazy. Now, eat your lunch. It's getting cold."

***

I am a little late getting away from the auditorium, but not so late that Rhonda is ready to give Emily up for adoption. She meets me at the door, and, as I cuddle my daughter to my cheek, she assembles her things and gives me a rundown of the day's events.

"She wasn't as bad about being left as she usually is," she remarks, stuffing an empty bottle into the side pocket. "Maybe because it was your mother who was leaving her, and not you. She settled down pretty well, and when they were napping, she didn't even wake up when Hannah started to cry."

I thank her, and juggle my way out the door to the car. It's a short ride home, but a lot seems to happen, and it starts the second I back out of the driveway.

Emily begins to fuss as soon as I start down the road, and I realise that the late afternoon sun is shining directly into her eyes, so I decide to take the long way home. Once I've turned around, I narrowly miss running down a trio of children getting off the school bus. The bus driver blares his horn at me, and Emily starts to wail, so as I dig through my purse for my Advil, the people behind me start beeping to get me to move once the school bus has started on its way.

Then, as I turn down a side road to get myself headed in the direction of our home once more, I miss the sign saying that particular route is under construction, and so slam on my brakes just in time to avoid crashing into a shallow pit where the road once was.

"Great," I sigh, carefully backing up, "now Daddy's going to wonder where we went, and we'll be behind in getting supper ready. Or rather," I correct myself, "I will."

Emily is depressingly unsympathetic, but I don't suppose I really expected anything else. She starts to whimper again as the sun shines once more in her eyes, so I pick up speed a little, attracting the attention of two gentlemen in a squad car, who detain me for reckless endangerment of the general population.

"Why were you in such a hurry, Sydney?" Carl wonders, writing out a ticket, and I shrug, reaching out for it with a resigned sigh.

"The sun's in Emily's eyes, and I wanted to get onto the highway as fast as I could so she'd stop fussing."

His face softens in understanding, and once he has poked his head into the backseat to make faces at my delighted child, he takes the ticket from my hand, tears it up, and stuffs it in his pocket.

"I'll let you go with a warning this time, okay? That is, on the strict condition that you get yourself home and put your feet up. I heard you've been spreading yourself a little thin as of late."

"What, you've been talking to Dad?" I make a face of my own, and Carl laughs.

"Your father, your mother, and Mike as well. They're all a little worried about you, Sydney. You're gonna have to slow things down a bit pretty soon, or else you won't even be fit to drive."

I smile, and thank him, and he shrugs it off.

"I'm just worried about you too, is all. But look, Syd, do me a favour, will you? Don't take the highway home. Go through town, all right? Drive slow, take it easy, and be sure to say hi to the family for me."

"I will, Carl. You too. And Carl? Thanks. Really, thanks."

"Don't mention it. Just get home and relax. And don't let me catch you speeding around here again, you got that?" he stabs a finger at me in mock warning as he backs away from the car, letting e pull away from the curb and wave at him before I drive off out of sight.

***

I follow his advice and take the long route home, driving through town. It's not only a longer drive lengthwise, but the speed limit is considerably reduced, so I'm going to end up being even later than I would have been had I taken the highway. Still, the colours of the leaves and the leisurely pace combine to relax me somewhat, and I am beginning to think that Carl was right, and this is just what I need, when it happens.

I see, out of the corner of my eye, a blonde, vaguely spiky head that is entirely too familiar in form for comfort.

My heart begins to freeze in my chest cavity, and I feel a cold sweat forming under my palms. The wheel becomes slippery in my grasp, and I don't even realise that I've stopped the car until I hear a slightly impatient horn honk from somewhere close behind me.

I hear each breath come, ragged and sharp, as I wrench the wheel to the right and find a parking spot amongst some other faculty cars beside the swan pond. I know I'm taking somebody's spot, but I don't care.

Emily voices a mild protest of the sudden jarring lurch her baby seat took, but I don't hear it, since I'm already out of the car and scanning the many passers-by who are hurrying for home, and the supper that awaits them there.

Nothing.

Nothing, save for the usual suspects- men with second-generation briefcases in hand, wearing overcoats unbuttoned against the warm September evening; women in pantsuits or laddered stockings, who smile and chat with every familiar face they meet along the way. All familiar, normal, and reassuringly ordinary sights.

But I saw it.

I know I did.

That head. The side and back of the head that has been haunting me without my knowledge or consent for the past month, and will now become a living threat unless I take steps to put an end to it. Only- how?

I don't see him anywhere.

Yes, among the teachers there are students and other people of an appropriate age, and some of these are blonde men. But none of them are the one I think - know - I saw, so I can't really do anything about it, except sag against my car, and become gradually conscious of my child's rather indignant little cries.

"Oh, honey, Mommy's sorry," I murmur, turning to right the slightly tilted baby seat, and calm its ruffled occupant. "Mommy thought she saw somebody she knew, and she got scared, and why she's telling you any of this she has no idea."

I sigh, shake my head, and run a fingertip down the little nose, ending with a smart tap at the saucy, upward tilt.

"Come on, kiddo. What do you say we both go home?"

***

When I get home, Mike is not yet in residence, so I grab two Michelina's boxes from the deep freeze, and pop them into the microwave. Donovan gives me an accusing stare, and I roll my eyes at him as I head for the door to let him and Francie outside.

"Yes, I know that it's technically cheating, but I'll make a salad, and he likes Chicken Italiano, so it's not like he's really going to kick up a fuss, is it? Now, go out there, and do what you're supposed to. I have to get changed."

With one last dubious snort he waddles out into the backyard, leaving me to jog upstairs, baby on hip, where I change out of Mike's pants into my own jeans, and trade my blouse and blazer for a hooded sweatshirt.

Then I change Emily, and return to the back door, where Donovan and Francie are now ready to come inside and beg for tidbits as I toss what has to be the fastest-assembled garden salad in history.

Then I add a few drops of water, cover it, and place it in the fridge just as Mike stumbles through the door, the strain of a full day with fifth-graders showing plainly on his face.

"Are you alive?" I tease, stepping over Emily as she begins rolling over to the dog dishes - where Donovan is waiting for his supper - so I can greet my husband.

He doesn't collapse under the weight of the arms I place around his neck to hold him steady for the kiss I give him, so I assume that he is, indeed, alive, and follow him up the stairs to talk to him as he, too, changes into something more comfortable.

"They weren't that bad, really," he muses, tugging on his own jeans, and swapping his shirt for a tee. "I mean, as things go, they were actually pretty good. I guess I was just ready to come home."

"Mm, I know what you mean. Hey, have you talked to Tom about this Christmas?"

"No, I thought you were going to bring it up with Lisa tonight when you took the dogs for their walk."

"I was. I am. I just figured there was no point if you'd already mentioned it to Tom."

"There wouldn't be, but I didn't, so don't forget to ask her. How was your day, Sweetie?"

"Well," I say carefully, "it wasn't so great, but I'm sure I've had worse. Except-"

"Except what?"

"Except I think I saw Sark."

He is suddenly perfectly still. His features are hard, and set, and he looks as if he were carved from granite. His eyes are cold, and I know him well enough to know that means he's trying to hide how terrified he is.

"When?"

"As I was driving home."

"Where?"

"I took the long way from Rhonda's, so it was across from the swan pond. I'd just reached the Anglican church, and I'd stopped for two students to cross in front of me, when I saw- well, I'm not sure what I saw, exactly. Only that it looked like his head. I pulled over and got out to see if it was, but I couldn't see him, so I don't know for sure. Only- well- considering our circumstances, I thought that I'd better tell you. I just hate to make you worry."

"Hate to- Sydney, I'm your _husband_. I _love_ you. It's my _job_ to worry about you."

"Oh?" I manage a tiny smile. "Then what's Dad's job?"

"To drive you crazy worrying about you," he replies promptly. "And you know he's going to when we tell him."

"We have to tell him?" I ask, my voice very tiny, and Mike looks surprised.

"Sydney, do you know what he'll do if we don't, and he finds out?"

I wince. It's not a pretty thought.

"But if we tell him now, he's going to try and make us go away, and that's the last thing I want. It might not even have been Sark- just some student who looked like him from behind. And I can't imagine that Sark would do the tourist thing for a while before killing us, or whatever he plans on doing, can you? Wouldn't it make more sense if I were to open the door and find him there, rather than she him wandering around downtown?"

"I'd rather you see him wandering around downtown than open the door and find him there," Michael says grimly, "but you do have a point. I just don't like keeping this from your parents. I don't think they'd do anything serious to you, but me . . ." he trails off, and winces, as if at some unpleasant thought. "Me, I don't think they'd be so kindly towards," he finishes, making me smile.

"Mike, you know they love you just as much as they love me. But I still don't want to tell them just yet. Dad wouldn't handle it too well at this point in time- he's already got Mom and the apartment to worry about, without us adding more to it, okay?"

Mike hesitates, but I already know what's coming. Even before his shoulders relax and he nods reluctantly,. I know that he's going to give in, and I hear his reluctant concession even before he makes it.

"Fine. But promise me, the second we know for sure that it's Sark, we'll go tell your mom and dad, and we'll get Emily out of here."

"I promise." I say firmly. "The last thing I'd do is keep Emily around here if it really is Sark, and if we do find out that it is, I'm not so sure I wouldn't feel safer with Mom and Dad camped out downstairs anyway."

He grins down at me, and lowers his face to mine. Before he can kiss me, however, Donovan yelps indignantly, and Emily's thin babbles of protest float up to us, rolling our eyes simultaneously skyward.

"I can't wait until she starts driving," Mike mutters as we head downstairs to investigate. "At least that way, I can get some insurance money out of the whole mess."

***

After supper, I straighten up the kitchen and get my own class preparations completed. Then, shortly after nine o'clock, I leave Mike surrounded by schoolwork, Francie and Emily, and leash Donovan to take him on our nightly walk with Lisa and her three Dobermans.

She meets us on the sidewalk in between our houses, her trio impressively dangerous-looking in the orange glow of the streetlights. Even I, who know them, find it a little unnerving to be suddenly surrounded by such large, lean, well-muscled beasts.

Donovan is quite the opposite- thrilled to have some company. He wiggles his little curl of a tail as he greets each dog in turn before turning his attentions to Lisa, who lets him slobber all over what appear to be brand new gloves.

"You aren't going to be a bad boy tonight, are you?" she asks him with mock solemnity. "I remember not very long ago you tugged the leash right out of your mummy's hand. That was not very nice of you at all, little mister."

Donovan's tongue lolled in adoring incomprehension. You might think that somebody who speaks baby talk to her dogs wouldn't have any sort of control over them at all, but in fact, it's quite the opposite. Lisa runs her little group with an iron fist, and they obey her without so much as a murmur. I have frequently envied her that control, especially on our walks, when all three of hers are off-leash, and my one has to be reined in almost to my waist so he doesn't bolt after every little leaf he sees.

Lisa offered not too long ago to give me the name of a good obedience instructor, but with my schedule, I had to refuse. Now, as Donovan roars mightily at a passing paper bag and the Dobes barely give it so much as a glance, I begin to wish that I had somehow made the time.

"He's getting a little better," Lisa offers, and I make a face at the lie.

"He's doing no such thing. He's as rude as ever. I don't know what it is- in the daytime he's just like a little lamb, and Mike or I can take him jogging wherever and whenever we please. But try taking him out after dark, and he thinks he's lions, tigers and bears all rolled into one."

"Well," Lisa observes, with a pointedly downward glance at my burly little guardian, "I think you should have hand washed all of them."

"Thanks," I roll my eyes. "Thanks a bunch."

She laughs, then abruptly turns to snap,

"Dax! Off!"

Her largest Doberman, a male, sulkily retreats from a fascinated perusal of something decomposing, but at least he retreats of his own accord- I practically have to hang Donovan every time I want him to come away from an object of his interest.

"So- how are things with your mother?" Lisa wonders, and I flush with delight.

"Wonderful. Do you know what we found out a little while ago? She came to Christ a year before Mike and I did, which was two years before Dad. My mother! Ex-KGB, multiple murderer, and born again. I mean, yes, Mike, Dad and I have done our share of not-so-great things in our time, but . . . I don't know. Mom just kind of surprised me."

"I second that." Lisa says, startled. "You've got to be kidding me. I mean, not that your mom isn't great, and everything, but- wow. You can't be serious."

"I am, and I couldn't be happier about it," I smile, hauling Donovan out of a pile of rotting leaves clogging the gutter. "And she just told me the other day that she's going to become a member of our church- she says she wants voting power, so she can get that rickety old flight of back stairs replaced with new ones. She almost fell flat on her face carrying Emily down them last week."

"I agree we need new ones- she wasn't hurt, was she?"

"Mom? No way. She did a somersault over the railing and landed square on her feet. Emily didn't even squeak."

"I should have guessed," Lisa rolls her eyes. "Your mother's just like you- some kind of woman, as I believe Jack and Mike say."

"Is that what they say?" I blush. "They've always been inclined to exaggerate. Hey," I sniff the air, "there's a skunk around here."

"Ugh." Lisa wrinkles her nose.

"Does it bother you?" I wonder, taking another lungful of the heavily perfumed air. "I kind of like it. I didn't really get to smell too many skunks back in Los Angeles."

"No," Lisa agrees, "I suppose you wouldn't. But with three dogs, and two of them entered in this weekend's show, I'm inclined to be a little cautious. Do you think we could head back now?"

I don't have a problem with it, so we turn around, and head back for home. Along the way Lisa tries to instruct me in controlling Donovan a little better, and it seems from time to time as if it's working, but I can't really say for sure.

"He _is_ getting better," Lisa reassures me once we've reached our respective driveways. "He really is. You just need to be consistent with him, and he'll learn."

I thank her, and we say good night to each other before Lisa's guards escort her up her walk, and Donovan drags me up mine. I barely get the door open before he yanks me through, into the living room and onto Mike's lap.

"He's been pulling me everywhere tonight!" I complain, and Mike, once he's recovered from the initial shock of having both Donovan and me deposited in his lap, grins up at me.

"I can't really say I have much of a problem with that," he muses, and I swat him, scowling.

"Oh, easy for you to say. You walk him in the day time- I'm the one who takes him out at night. Why is he like that, anyway?"

"Well, in LA the only times I took him out at night were when I thought I might need a little backup, so to speak, so he got to know I expected him to show off a bit. You know- teeth, growling, charging- things like that."

"Then maybe _you_ should be the one to un-train him. I'm not sure I'm up to that on top of everything else."

Mike smiles, and tugs me down so he can kiss me.

"I'll see what I can do," he promises. "Now, why don't we go put our princess to bed, and see if we can't find something to occupy ourselves with before bed time."

"Well," I said archly, "I'm not so sure I want to. You'll have to set the alarm clock before I can think about anything like that."

Mike smiles, and, standing, scoops me up in his arms.

"I'll see what I can do about that, too," he murmurs into my neck, and I giggle.

"Stop that, it tickles. Fine, then- we'll put her to bed, and if you really do set the alarm, I'll consider it."

He's so delighted that he carries me upstairs, Emily cradled against my chest. She was already dozing off on the rag rug beside Francie, and she barely stirs as, upon arriving in her room, we change her, and lay her in her crib.

"She's incredible," I sigh, reaching out to run my fingertip over her cheek. "She's really incredible, Mike, you know that?"

"She takes after her mother," he responds, leaning over to kiss me.

"Oh, you think so, do you?" I wonder, turning to link my fingers together behind his neck so he can kiss me more directly.

"Mm-hm," he murmurs, "I do."

"Well, maybe if you were to set the alarm clock, we could discuss this further-" I am interrupted, however, by an all-too familiar bark at the back door.

"Oh, you cannot tell me that dog has to go out again already!" he groans, and I roll my eyes.

"Even if I didn't, he would. Hang on, okay? Go and set the alarm- I'll let him out, then I'll be back up."

I leave the nursery and head back downstairs, grumbling under my breath. I reach the back door and let Donovan out so he can go racing around in mad circles, barking his head off until I'm ready to tell him to do something productive, or get his wrinkly rear back inside before he wakes the neighbours.

As it turns out, he only wakes four- Lisa lets her incensed dogs into her own backyard so they can verify that it really is only Donovan, and as they do, she shouts at me in mock anger.

"Your dog's going to wake the whole neighbourhood, lady!"

I laugh, and am about to reply, but before I can, Lisa shouts suddenly,

"No! No, Dax, get back! That's not a cat, you dumb dog, it's a-"

She needn't finish, though. Dax's startled yelp and the almost tangible wall of odour that wafts across the lawn to engulf me, making me want to retch, is all the closure her sentence needs.

"Skunk!" I groan, covering my mouth to keep the stench out and vomit in.

Let me tell you, there is nothing like the smell of skunk at first hand. Far off it may be intriguing, but when it's that close, all you can think about is getting away.

"Donovan!" I snap through my plugged nose. "Donovan, get in here, right now!"

I don't have to tell him twice. He's already bolting for the door, trying to outrun the smell. Honey and Chloe are doing the same, and Lisa quickly slams the screen door on poor Dax, who is racing in circles, trying to get rid of the stink.

"Oh, no you don't," Lisa scolds him. "You were a shoo-in for Best in Group this weekend, Mister, and you go and blow it by playing with a skunk! Well, you can just stay out there tonight until I can find enough tomato juice to get rid of that _stench_."

Once I'm safely inside, I am able to laugh as I bolt all the doors, turn on our brand new security system, and head back upstairs to tell Vaughn about Lisa's latest dog-related dilemma.

I am greeted, however, by a half-undressed, sweetly snoozing husband, and, once I've changed into my own pyjamas, decide that I might as well leave him that way- it's probably best that he get as much sleep as he can before heading back to work the next morning.

And besides, I'm feeling a little peeved at him at the moment- he forgot to set the alarm.

***

***

That's it for now- just a few quick notes, and I'm out of here.

Thanks so much for the reviews! I can't say enough how much they've come to mean to me, and I hope you'll keep them coming for a long time yet.

For all you poor, uneducated Americans out there, Tim Hortons (sadly, insofar as my family knows, he was no relation!) is one of the best shops of its kind, and a double-double is a Tim's coffee with two creams and two sugars. Now you know.

Watch for the next chapter, coming sooner or later, and review this one! Thanks so much!


	4. Chapter Three

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Chapter Three is now here, for your reading enjoyment! I have a sort of plot line worked out already, and, going by that, I don't think that I can make this one as long as Five Years, if I really do keep the Bristows/Vaughns all in Sackville. Of course, if I sent them out of the country, we could be looking at a novel- maybe two. I just have to decide which one I want more.

For now, things are going to pick up just a tiny bit, but don't expect any real fireworks for another chapter or two, and Heaven knows how long it's going to take me to get that far. Summer, I'm finding, is the best time for me to write- school really drags me away from the computer, or worse, the computer drags me away from school, and my marks tell on me. Nasty. Anyway- I hope you like this, and maybe the rarity of the updates will make you all the more excited when they happen. I dunno, but I can hope, right?

Enjoy!

***

*** 

Once I'm safely inside, I am able to laugh as I bolt all the doors, turn on our brand new security system, and head back upstairs to tell Vaughn about Lisa's latest dog-related dilemma.

I am greeted, however, by a half-undressed, sweetly snoozing husband, and, once I've changed into my own pyjamas, decide that I might as well leave him that way- it's probably best that he get as much sleep as he can before heading back to work the next morning.

And besides, I'm feeling a little peeved at him at the moment- he forgot to set the alarm.

***

When morning comes, the air outside the house still hangs heavy with the smell of last night's little adventure. When I let the dog and cat out into the backyard, Dax looks up and whines piteously from where he was banished to a bed of leaves, and I have to cringe at the odor that is still clinging to him.

"Hurry up, Donovan," I urge. It seems as if the skunk smell is increasing rather than decreasing, filling my nostrils and clogging my throat. I fight the urge to gag as Francie, already finished, darts back into the warmth of the house.

Donovan, though, takes his time selecting a bush to lift his leg on, and is still deliberating between one of my many burlap-encased lilacs and a little evergreen shrub near the back of the yard when Lisa emerges with the other two dogs, and offers a bleary-eyed hello.

"Hey- how'd you sleep?" I wonder, seeing that she looks even less happy to be up than usual.

"Oh, I slept just fine- it's that I only slept for about three hours. The others I spent phoning around to everybody I know who might have a can of tomato juice. I have three promised, and two uncertain, discounting the one in our own cupboard. You wouldn't happen to have any kicking around, would you?"

The very thought of tomato juice turns my stomach, and with that combined with the smell of skunk, it's all I can do to formulate a reply.

"I might- I'll check before I leave for work, okay?"

"Thanks. I keep thinking that maybe I'll be able to get him cleaned up in time for Saturday, and then I stick my nose out the door, and wonder who I think I'm kidding."

I make a sympathetic face, then, as Donovan is finally finished, I feel my stomach finally revolt. I bolt for the bathroom as soon as I'm indoors, and by the time I've had an in-depth conversation with the toilet bowl, I heartily regret the Michelina's supper of the night before. I'm still there when Mike finds me, and immediately gets down on his knees to help me sit up.

"Honey, are you all right?" he asks, and I manage a nod.

"Yeah, I don't know what that was all about. I mean, well, yes, I suppose I do. Dax got sprayed last night, and the smell is still everywhere out there, and then Lisa started talking about tomato juice and it was just more than I could take. I'm starting to feel better already. Help me up, will you? I need to get dressed."

The nausea dissipates still further as I clothe myself, and the fresh air outside clears away the last remaining twinges as I open the front door. It's started to rain gently since I let the dog and cat out, and when I reach my parking space at work I find it necessary to shed my jacket, since the crisp fall coolness has faded into sticky humidity. The auditorium is clammy as well, and all of my students are listless and inattentive. They forget the simplest conjugation rules, many of them are disruptive, and I find that I have to ask three of them to leave altogether.

By the time lunch rolls around I am cranky, tired, irritable, and hungry, since I had skipped breakfast due to my little queasy spell. Dad, seeing the signs, knows to leave me well enough alone for the rest of the day, and Mike takes one look at me when he gets home, and, bless him, offers to make supper. Mom and Dad both come over to eat it with us and by then I've come around enough so that, even if I don't exactly sparkle, I can at least make halfway civilized conversation.

It is, I will say right now, extremely hard for me to not tell Mom and Dad about seeing Sark- or somebody who looked enough like him to scare the living daylights out of me. I know, though, that the second I tell them, I'll be bundled onto a plane bound for Nome, and quite possibly not allowed to return until my daughter is ready for her high school graduation. They love me, but they're _so_ overprotective.

So I force myself to keep my mouth shut all through supper, and each time I see them after that. As the days go by I find that it doesn't so much get easier to do so as it becomes easier to pretend the problem doesn't exist, since I manage to distract myself for the most part with the mild bout of stomach flu I have - mercifully - contracted.

By the time Thanksgiving weekend is only three days away, I finally seem to have gotten over both the flu and my panicky apprehension that they will somehow find out what's going on, and am almost comfortable with sitting down to lunch with Dad and pretending everything is normal.

"It's not done," is the first thing he says to me, once I've set my lunch tray down on the table.

"What- oh, the apartment. Well, what has she got left to do?"

"What _isn't_ there left to do?" he returns, frowning. "There are dropcloths and ladders everywhere, my apartment is filled with strange men, my wife is still threatening to smash out the eastern wall of the living room, and my couch hasn't come yet. If I turn up on your doorstep sometime soon, you'll take me in, right?"

I laugh.

"So- do you actually mind having Mom there, then?"

"Mind?" he looks at me like I've suddenly grown two heads. "Sydney, I love her dearly. I would follow her to the ends of the earth if she asked me to- even if she didn't ask me to, I think I would. I just- I like my space."

"I know you do. Maybe I could find an hour or two to come over and help out, so she can get it finished by Thanksgiving."

"No," Dad says firmly, "I won't let you neglect your work. Your mother doesn't have to work- I think she's actually enjoying this because it occupies her. You, however, have a job, a husband, and a daughter. You don't need to take on our problems as well."

"I don't see it as a problem," I protest. "I see it as a chance to spend time with Mom."

Dad's face softens, and he nods.

"I should have known that, Sydney, I'm sorry. But she still insists that she'll be done by Friday evening- Saturday morning, at the latest. So if that's true, she'll have plenty of time to spend with you after this weekend."

I smile, nod, and shovel a forkful of salad into my mouth. Dad, watching me, appears puzzled.

"Sydney?"

"Mm?"

"You hate Greek salad."

"Mm?" I look down and find that I am, in fact, eating a Greek salad.

"Oh- I thought it was a Caesar. I don't know why I'm so preoccupied these days."

Shaking my head, I select an olive and pop it into my mouth, remember too late that I hate olives, and spit it out into my napkin, trying all the while to ignore the funny look Dad is giving me.

"So- I'm going to take Emily to the park after classes. Do you want to come with us?"

"Sydney," Dad says deliberately, and I hope I look innocent as I raise my eyes to his.

"Yes?"

"Is there something you would like to tell me?"

"About what, Dad?"

"I don't know- that's what I'm asking you. Is something going on that I should know about?"

"No, Dad, I don't think so."

"Hmm." He looks skeptical, and I widen my eyes in an expression of offended trust.

"Dad, if there were something I had to tell you, I would tell you!"

"Not if you didn't want me to know."

"Oh, come on, now, Dad! What could that possibly be? You're being silly! Here. Have an olive."

He ignores the tidbit I have speared on my fork, concentrating instead on me.

"Sydney."

"What, Dad?"

"There _is_ something, isn't there?"

"Dad, I don't know what you're-"

"Oh, yes, you do," he nods grimly. "You know very well. Now, I can't imagine - or, more accurately, I don't care to imagine - what sort of thing you would actually want to keep hidden from me, but I do want to point out that uncovering secrets is something of a specialty of mine, as you may recall."

"Oh, so you're planning on strapping me to your recliner and injecting me with truth serum?" I arch an eyebrow. "Or will you just start with the kneecaps and work your way up?"

"Sydney-"

"No, really, Dad." I do my best acting when I'm defensive, and I am just grateful that he had given me a reason to become so. "I don't appreciate you insinuating that I would ever keep something from you without just cause. You know how much both you and Mom mean to me, and how much Mike and I are coming to rely on you both for advice. If there were anything I needed to bring to you - either of you - you must know by now that I would already have done so. So please, just trust me, relax, and eat the olive."

He isn't completely convinced. I can see it as plainly as if he had just come out and said "I'm not convinced." But at least he does sit back and accept the olive, allowing me to finish off the salad I'm not supposed to like before I start in on the manicotti, trying to look as if there's nothing wrong.

I once survived by pretending to be somebody I wasn't. I was even, I flatter myself, rather good at it. But something must have changed, because it's not so easy, I'm finding, to pretend anymore.

***

"I think Dad suspects something," I sigh, the second Mike gets home. He blinks at me.

"Hi, honey, good to see you, too."

"Oh, love, I'm sorry." I come over and kiss his raindrop-dotted cheek before using the hand that isn't full of Emily to help him out of his wet coat. "I really am glad you're home. How was your day?"

"Well, decent I suppose, but now that I'm worried about you it's starting to go downhill. Your father suspects what?"

"Something. About- you know. Sark."

"Oh, right." Mike's forehead furrows as he takes his coat back from me to hang it on the hat stand to dry out. "You haven't seen him since, right?"

"Mike! I'd have told you if I had! And besides, I'm still not positive that it even was Sark I saw."

"No, but you said there was a resemblance, and that's enough to worry me. So what is it that's tipping Jack off?"

"Well, I had a Greek salad today."

"But you hate those," he frowns, taking Emily from me to nuzzle her gently before he slips his arm around my shoulders and guides me into the living room.

"I know," I sigh, flopping down on the couch beside him. "But I didn't notice when I picked it up, and I didn't notice when I ate it, either. So not only am I definitely over this flu thing, but now Dad is sure that something's up, because I don't think he believed me when I denied it."

"Have you given any more thought to just telling him about it?"

"_Telling_ him?! Mike, are you _crazy_?! He'd _flip_! Dad goes _nuts_ when he thinks somebody's trying to hurt me! And even though I'm not really sure how Mom would handle it, I'm still fairly confident that she wouldn't just tell me to run along and play."

"Well, no," Mike agrees, "but did she ever?"

"Ever what? Oh- tell me to run along and play. Well, no, not exactly. But she wouldn't take it lying down, is what I mean. And I'm starting to think that I shouldn't, either."

"What do you mean?"

"Well- do you think we should at least step up security around here a bit?"

"Step it _up_? Sydney, we just installed a state-of-the-art security system, we have a fanged cannonball who sleeps at the foot of our bed, a miniature panther, and you! You want to step up security? I'm sorry, but I just don't see how we can do that, short of hiring the entire police force to camp out on our lawn."

"Well," I say, "that might get a little crowded. I was thinking more along the lines of floodlights and more fencing."

"More fencing? Our entire back yard is already fenced in."

"I know- I was thinking we could do the front yard, too."

Mike sighs.

"Sydney," he says patiently, "this is Sackville. You don't put up front yard fences in Sackville. It's rude."

"It could be a picket fence."

"Then what's the point?"

"It could be electric."

"Electric?! Sydney, how can a picket fence be electric?!"

"I have connections," I sniff. "I could get it done."

"And that's what scares me," he mutters. "Look, Sweetheart, I fully appreciate that you're scared. I am too, really. But when we've reached the point where we're talking about electric fences and floodlights, we've reached the point where we're going to have to bring in extra help."

"You mean Dad," I frown.

"Yes, I mean your dad. Sydney, he's more than capable."

"So am I!"

"Yes, I know you are. But you're also, I am beginning to see, a nervous wreck at the moment. I don't want you worrying about defending your home on top of everything else. Don't you think we should-"

"No! No, I don't!" I clutch at his arm, searching for the words with which to make him understand me.

"I- Mike, listen to me, please. I'm scared, all right? There, I've said it. I'm scared. I'm scared for you, and Emily, and me, and what we've got here. I'm scared for Mom and Dad, too- they're just getting to know each other again, and here I am, with news that could send us scattering to all corners of the Earth again. That's the last thing I want, Mike. I want to stay here, where I belong, and let Sark come to me. I want to end this for good, and, if it comes down to it, I fully intend to scatter him to all corners of the Earth. This is my home, and my life, and I love everything about them. If you think he can get me to give them up without a fight, then you don't know me as well as I thought you did."

Mike looks at me searchingly for a long time without saying anything, and then at long last he sighs, and nods.

"Fine. We won't tell your dad. Yet. But please, Sydney," he adds pleadingly, "forget about the fence."

The man drives a hard bargain. But there was no way I was dragging Dad into this until it was absolutely necessary, so just as he'd known I would, I finally grimaced at Mike, and nodded, giving in.

Even now, it doesn't come easy to me.

***

The next day the temperature dips down so sharply that the rain that had fallen the night before solidifies, glazing the streets with a thin, deadly sheet of ice. The radio cautions us to allow extra time when leaving for work, though whether that's because the roads are so slippery or the sidewalks are I'm not sure- I fall three times before I finally reach the car. By the time I get up for the third time, I feel my stomach starting to churn as it hasn't in several days. I always have a hard time shaking colds and flu, and this one, it seems, is particularly fond of me

"You're sure you'll be all right?" Mike calls anxiously as he emerges, bundled up to his nose to combat the bitter breeze that's whipping around the house.

"I'm fine," I insist, fighting down a fresh wave of nausea. "You're the one who hates this kind of weather, remember? Now, bring Emily out, but be careful- that sidewalk's a killer."

He minces along gingerly, looking like some sort of comic ballerina before he finally decides to take a large step sideways, over the border gardens, and crunch across the lawn to reach the driveway.

Of course, the traction he finds there gives him something of a false sense of security, and once he has reached the driveway he forgets to be cautious. The result is that his feet shoot out from under him, and I dive forward to catch Emily's baby seat just before it hits the ground.

Her big, brown eyes blink at me with mild affront from under a little cap that was knit for her by Louise, one of the ladies at our church. Mom had approached her one Sunday after church to present a truly heartbreaking scenario- that of a grandmother who doesn't know how to knit. Louise was so touched by her plight that, once she had made Mom promise to come over one afternoon a week for lessons, she'd agreed to provide Emily with enough hats, mittens and sweaters to last her until she had children of her own.

Now, though, that has come so close to not ever being a possibility that I have to remain on the ground for a few minutes and just reassure myself that my daughter is quite all right.

"Sorry," Mike gasps, getting to his feet. "Oh, wow, is she okay?"

"Yes, I think so."

We busy ourselves with examining her, and Emily, quite pleased with all the attention, gurgles happily. Once we've reassured ourselves that she's intact, we get cautiously to our feet.

"You'll be all right to drive?" Mike asks, and I nod confidently, kissing him before I take Emily out of his arms and secure her in the back seat.

"I'll be fine, Mike, I promise. Now, don't forget to make sure you get everything in the way of schoolwork done tonight, since we're going to be spending Saturday and Sunday with Mom and Dad, and Monday is for just the three of us. I don't want you working on our holiday, you got that?"

He assures me that he does, indeed, have that, and then belatedly returns the kiss I gave him.

"I love you," he tells me, and redundant though the information is, I love hearing it all the same.

"I know," I say simply, "I love you back. Now, I have to go, but I'll try to be home in plenty of time to make a real supper tonight, okay?"

"All right, and I'll see if I can't be home on time tonight."

We shake on this, closing the deal, and seal it with one more kiss before I slide in behind the wheel, and back cautiously down the driveway. Mike first makes sure I'm safely on the street and pointed in the right direction before he turns to head back to the house to get his books- and promptly loses his footing, falling flat on his face.

I open my door and shout his name, worried, but he gives me a reassuring wave from his face-down position, and calls out cheerfully, "I'm okay!" so I feel comfortable slipping out of reverse, into drive, and inching away down Bridge Street, toward town.

***

I don't see any ditched cars as I make my way towards Rhonda's, so the ice must not be anything worse than we're used to around here. I remember all too well my amazement when we first arrived in Sackville, and I experienced my very first Canadian winter- there is nothing like it anywhere else on Earth.

Firstly, contrary to what some - okay, then, many - Americans may believe, there is little to no snow around here until November, and even then it's not unusual for the white stuff to hold off until after Christmas. In January, though, it starts falling with a vengeance, and in the Maritimes it isn't unusual for the drifts to reach depths of three or four feet within a week or so.

Farther West, I've been told, it's warmer, and in British Columbia I've heard there are some winters when they don't get any snow at all, but that doesn't really affect me when I'm out knee-deep in the stuff, shoveling out the car so I can go price snow blowers.

We can also get something much worse than snow, and that's freezing rain. Freezing rain is, quite simply, water that falls from the sky and turns into ice the second it lands. It's potentially deadly, since roads covered in ice can lead to pile-ups and severe crashes, so from December to April the undersides of most cars are bleached white with the road salt used to melt the ice.

Now, though, the cars I see are all on the road, intact, and clean, and as far as I know they stay that way even after they have moved beyond my line of sight. I reach Rhonda's without mishap, but once I'm through the door I find my stomach churning. Without so much as pausing to shed my boots I all but toss Emily at her, and bolt for the bathroom.

Rhonda follows me shortly after, a glass of water and a cold washcloth in hand, and tells me that the flu seems to be going around a lot earlier this year. I thank her for this information, drink the water, wipe my face with the washcloth, and drag myself to work.

Dad meets me at the door to my auditorium, concern written all over his face.

"Rhonda called me," he says without preamble. "Sydney, I tell you you've been pushing yourself too hard. You're sick, and you should be at home resting. Look, I have a free hour before my first class, and I'd be happy to drop you off. I could even bring your mother over to look after you and Emily, if you like."

"Dad, I appreciate it, but-"

"But _nothing_, Sydney! You're wearing yourself down to the bone, and if you keep it up, you're going to find that you're really sick. It's best if you go home now, and save yourself a lot more trouble later on."

He has by now achieved that tone that means he's not going to take no for an answer, and to tell the truth, I don't feel like offering it as one. I am tired, I feel mildly nauseated and decidedly dizzy, and with a vague sort of surprise I feel myself nod before I speak to him.

"Fine, Dad, if you'll just let me contact my students, I'll cancel my classes for today."

"No, you'll cancel all classes right up to this weekend," Dad says grimly. "That will give you the long weekend off, as well as an extra two days. Maybe that will be enough to get you back on your feet again."

I find that I can't argue. My constant apprehension both about Sark and about Mom and Dad finding out, combined with the persistent bug I'm fighting, have worn me right down. I just nod, and reach for my cell. Twenty minutes later, I'm in Dad's car, being driven home.

"I'll call your mother once you're settled in bed," he tells me, helping me into the house, "and she'll come over to stay with you. She can also pick Emily up from Rhonda's, and I'll be over tonight to drop off your car. You need to relax, Sydney- something's been wearing you down, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't worry me to see you like this."

I manage a little smile as he aids me in getting upstairs, and I honestly think if I hadn't pushed him out the door to allow myself the privacy to change into my pyjamas, he'd have tried to help me with that, too, just like when I was sick as a little girl. As it is, I get into bed on my own steam and Dad comes back in a short time later with an empty plastic basin, a glass of water, and news.

"Your mother is on her way. She's going to call Mike to let him know you're here, and to tell him not to leave work, but just to make sure he gets home on time."

I nod, and smile up at him.

"Thank-you, Daddy."

"Don't mention it, Sweetheart," he smiles back. "I'm just glad you didn't fight me on this one- it would have made it a lot more difficult for me to get you here."

I laugh.

"Wouldn't it have, though. But really, Dad- I appreciate this. I never really knew what a great thing it was to have a family until I got my own. You, Mom, Mike and Emily- you're all I have, but I couldn't dream of asking for more. It's as if I'm afraid I've been given too much as it is- that if I said anything about it, it might turn out it was a mistake, and I wasn't meant to be this richly blessed."

"If anyone is, Sydney," Dad says gently, bending down to kiss my cheek, "you are. Now, get some sleep, all right? The world can do without you for an hour or two. You need your rest."

And, so to heart do I take his advice, he hasn't even made it out the door before my eyelids are falling over my eyes, and I slip away from consciousness with a sort of relief, as if all I had needed was permission to do so.

It feels fantastic.

***

When I awake, it's warm and quite dim inside the room, and I am conscious of somebody singing downstairs.

Mom.

It's a song I recognise- one she used to sing to me when I was little. And, judging by the glowing red numerals I read on the clock radio by the bed, she could very well be singing it to Emily.

With an effort I get out of bed and totter downstairs to find that she is, indeed, singing to my daughter as she prepares something for dinner. Emily, lying on a blanket on the kitchen floor, listens with rapt attention to the old Russian lyrics, as must have I many years before.

Mom doesn't notice I'm there until I start humming along with her song, and even then she keeps singing as she looks up, and both her face and eyes smile warmly at me. When she is done the song, she speaks.

"Are you feeling better, Sweetheart?"

"Much," I say with feeling. "Thank you so much for coming."

"Don't be silly," she smiles, raising the spoon from the pot to her lips and tasting it carefully, "I'm a mother whose daughter is sick. Where else would I be? Your father was quite worried about you when he called- of course, that's nothing new. He's made it something of a career to worry about you. But he seemed especially worried, so I decided it best to help you both out by coming over. Emily and I have been quite enjoying ourselves, too, haven't we, Sweetheart?"

Emily beams up at her grandmother, then turns her head so she can see me, and waves her hands at me in delight. I make my way over to pick her up, and press my cheek to hers with a little sigh before seating myself at the kitchen table, and watching my mother cook.

"Boy, does this ever bring back memories," I remark presently, and Mom turns a curious gaze on me.

"How so?"

"Oh, just Dad coming to work to get me, like he used to come to school when I was sick, and then bringing me home. He'd get me changed, tuck me into bed, and call you at work. Then he'd stay with me until you got there- I was never alone. For the first six years of my life, I always had at least one of you to turn to, and very often both of you. I just- I'm grateful that I still do, especially after all that's happened."

Mom nods, sighs, and turns back to her creation.

"I worry too, you know," she says quietly after a rather lengthy silence, broken only by Emily's little coos and gurgles. "I worry a tremendous amount- I have ever since I left. Of course, I always knew your father would die before he ever let anything happen to you, but I would always wonder if maybe somebody wouldn't be able to bring that about. With him dead, who would look after you? It terrified me that you could be alone, and I wouldn't even know it. And now that I finally have you back, and your father as well, to know that something is bothering you . . ." she breaks off, shaking her head, her shoulders suspiciously stiff.

"Mom," I get up, "what do you mean, something bothering me?"

"Don't pretend there isn't something," she warns me, turning to face me. "I know there's something up, Sydney. I see it in your face every time we meet, now, and Jack's noticed it too. He's asked you, and you've denied it, so we've been letting it go, but it's starting to get to me. Sydney-" she breaks off, shaking her head.

"I'm a mother trying to make up for lost time- you understand? Something like this is bound to upset me. You have a right, of course, to your privacy, and your secrets, but I just wish you could at least tell me whether or not you need help. I need to know that much, at least, don't you see?"

I do see. For the first time, I see honest fear in my mother's face- fear for me. It bites at my heart, and I find myself smiling reassuringly, and placing my hand on her arm.

"Mom, even though I can certainly take care of myself, I promise you that if I needed your help, I would tell you. I don't. I just really appreciate that you've come here, made this supper, and looked after my baby when you still have an apartment that needs to be finished by this Saturday. I don't need your help in the way you seem to think I do- not now, anyway. I promise."

"You don't have to promise," Mom sighs. "Your word is good enough for me. I just needed to know that much, Sydney, and I appreciate you telling me so."

She hugs me tight for just a second before stepping back, and brushing quickly at her bright eyes as she speaks.

"Now- why don't you have a bath and leave me to finish up here? Take your time- have a proper soak. Your father's coming over to bring your car, and if it's all right with you and Mike, we'll take Emily for the night, and let you have your supper alone together before you get a decent night's sleep. And Sydney," she adds with mock warning, "I do actually mean sleep this time."

I smile my way upstairs to the bathtub.

***

Mike comes home while I'm still soaking, and I guess Mom told him where to find me because he doesn't even stop in at the bedroom before he comes to the bathroom, and bends over the tub to locate my lips with his own amid a mountain of bubbles.

"You might not want to do that," I warn him, just before he can kiss me. "I haven't brushed my teeth since I threw up."

He disregards my warning, though, and kisses me anyway.

"You feeling better?" he wants to know, and I nod.

"I really am. I think it must have been the tail end of this flu, but Dad's already had me cancel tomorrow's classes as well, so I suppose I'll just get a day of rest before the weekend."

"You'll have a whole weekend of rest if your parents and I have anything to say about it," Mike counters firmly. "Your father's right- you've been pushing yourself too hard. Only they don't even know the half of it."

"And you," I break in, "aren't about to tell them, right?"

Mike says nothing.

"_Right_?" I press. "Mike, you need to tell me you won't. They're worried enough about me now, when I'm just a little overtired and queasy. Can you even begin to imagine how they'd be if they knew somebody who wants to kill us is very likely in town at this moment? It's nothing I feel equal to dealing with, Mike, so I need you to tell me you won't say anything about it to them."

I won't," he sighs. "But Sydney, sooner or later you're going to have to."

"I hope," I frown, "that it will be after he's been shipped back to San Quentin."

"Maybe it will," Mike agrees. "But maybe it won't. And will you be ready for that when it happens?"

It tales me a while, but I'm finally able to promise that I will be. Then, at my request, he hands me a towel and I ease myself out of the warm haven I've been indulging in to dry off and dress myself for dinner.

We walk downstairs together, hand in hand, and just as we reach the landing we are greeted by rattle of the door handle as Dad lets himself in, greets my composed appearance with a look of relief, and shakes a shower of icy droplets from his coat.

"Rain," he announces, when he sees my worried look. "It's not that cold out there, but it's cold enough. And," he adds, "it sure smells good in here. What is that, Laura?"

"Spaghetti sauce," she smiles, tilting her face up to receive and return the kiss he gives her. "You brought Sydney's car?"

"I did. Do you want me to warm yours up? I don't want to put Emily into a cold car."

She agrees that this would be just plain wrong, and hands him the keys. He excuses himself and ducks out the door again, leaving Mom to say she'll turn down the sauce and check on the noodles, and Mike to ask if I'll be all right while he goes to get Emily's diaper bag assembled for her overnight trip.

I tell him I'll be just fine, then head into the living room to sit on the couch, and gaze outside at the streetlight-lit road. It's obviously a dark, wet night, and I can't help but be grateful I'm inside where it's safe, warm, and-

With a bloodcurdling shriek, I leap up, off the couch, away from the window. Donovan comes barreling into the room, barking his head off, and Mike and Mom aren't far behind him.

"Sydney? Sydney what is it?" Mom asks, her voice sharp but calm.

"I-I saw somebody," I stammer. "I saw somebody in the bushes, I know I did. He was bent over, and running, and he- I-" I break off, crying. Mike wraps his arms around me just as Dad comes bursting in the front door, provoking a fresh volley of barking from Donovan, who tears between Dad's legs, dashes down the steps, and runs in furious circles on the lawn once he sees that there is no longer anybody there.

"Sydney? What happened?" Dad demands, and all I can do is shake my head helplessly as Mom answers for me, her words terse and tone clipped.

"She saw somebody. Out on the lawn. Running."

Dad at once reaches for a gun that isn't there. When he realises it's not there, he hisses softly, and slams the heel of his hand against the palm of his other to at least partially express his frustration.

"I have one," Mike says. "In the basement. And the ammo's in the attic. By the time we reached them-" he breaks off, shaking his head. "Anyway," he adds as an afterthought, "if he were still out there, Donovan would have gone after him."

"And I'm sure your prowler would have been terrified," Dad says grimly, "at the sight of fourteen or so inches of wrinkles coming for his throat. You need to get a gun to keep close at hand. Not very close, of course," he adds quickly, "but close enough to reach when you need it."

"And give the next punk kids who break in something to shoot the place up with?" Mike shakes his head. "No thanks. Donovan will have to do- Donovan, and Sydney."

"Thanks, Honey- right up there with the dog, now, am I?" I roll my eyes, and Mike manages a smile.

"You've always been right up there with Donovan, Sweetheart," he promises affectionately. "Now, do you want to call the cops, or should we sit down to eat?"

I don't even have to think about my answer.

"Dinner. No way am I letting anybody mess up my nice, quiet family supper."

"But maybe you'll let your father and I-" Mom begins, forehead creased, and I interrupt her before she can finish.

"No, you are not going to camp out in my backyard, or my living room, or a guest room, or what have you. You are going to go home with your husband, where you belong, and if you're still interested in taking Emily with you, I thank you very much- her things are by the door, I believe."

Mom looks ready to argue back, but Dad puts a reassuring hands on her shoulder, and I see her soften slightly.

"Fine," she sighs, "we'll go. But make sure you set the alarm right after we leave, all right?"

We promise to do so, and then, once we've received instructions on how to best arrange and serve Mom's dinner, we see them out the door, our well-bundled daughter cuddled up against her grandmother's chest, her belongings overflowing from her grandfather's arms.

"Well, we know she'll be safe, at least," Mike smiles, keying in the alarm code once the door is shut. "Anybody would have to be crazy to take on either of your parents, and both of them?" he shakes his head, grinning. "Man, what a fight that would be! We could even sell tickets!"

"Don't get any ideas," I frown, as we head down the hall to the kitchen. "That wouldn't be a sporting event, it would be a bloodbath."

"You forget," Mike tells me, "I'm a male. It's preprogrammed into my genetic code to enjoy such things."

"It is not," I tell him crisply, serving up two plates of Mom's spaghetti and setting them down in front of our chairs. "I refuse to accept that as fact. Now, sit. I'm being domestic right now."

Mike obeys, and watches as I pour grape juice into the wine glasses Dad gave us for our first-year anniversary, set them out with the plates, and go hunting for candles.

Wonder of wonders I find a pair that match, even if the fact that they're deep burgundy and smell like blackberries somewhat contrasts the Italian-style feast set before us, and light them. Then I declare the table ready, turn down the lights, and offer him my hands.

He takes them in his own, and the last thing I see before closing my eyes for the blessing are his own, deep and green and silently declaring his love for me and the strange, wonderful life we have together.

Do I ever love him.

"Father," he whispers, "thank you. For the food, the family, and everything we have. It's all because of You, so thank-you, so much. Please bless this food, in Jesus' name, Amen."

"Amen," I echo, and wonder just what it is about grace that makes food taste twice as good.

Maybe it's the company you're inviting by saying it.

Speaking of company, Donovan seems to expect some. He's lurking by the door, growling ever so often, and effectively disrupting what would otherwise have been a beautiful meal.

"Think we'll be okay?" I wonder, when he rumbles warningly for the eighth time, making me jump nervously and drop my fork.

Mike smiles, reaches over, and covers my hand with his own until mine is still.

"Sydney," he says calmly, "I know so."

And the wonderful thing about hearing the words is, now I do, too.

***

***

Done! The chapter, at least. There's going to be more after this, though it might take a while. I'm still debating what's best to do in regards to length- it's the first time I ever thought my story wouldn't be long enough, and it's kind of a new experience for me. I do have a few ideas, but one of them I don't think will work out in this fic, and the others would mean Sydney (possibly the others too) leaving Sackville, which I was hoping not to have to do, but I suppose, if it's necessary . . .

Thank you again for all of your reviews- they really do keep me going. If it weren't for them, I think there'd just be a bunch of unfinished fics out there that never got past the first or second chapter. You made me finish them- you should feel proud of yourselves!

Now, if you'll just keep them coming, I'll try to get chapter four up before the spring thaw, okay?


	5. Chapter Four

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Chapter four. I mean, that's what this is. And it's for PJ, who, when I told her I wrote, actually logged on and read my stuff and then blew my mind my telling me she liked it! Patricia, honey, you rock! I mean that- you seriously do. So does everybody else who's been sticking with me so far- your feedback means so much to me.

Now read it, and review it, pretty please!

***

*** 

"Think we'll be okay?" I wonder, when he rumbles warningly for the eighth time, making me jump nervously and drop my fork.

Mike smiles, reaches over, and covers my hand with his own until mine is still.

"Sydney," he says calmly, "I know so."

And the wonderful thing about hearing the words is, now I do, too.

***

It feels wonderful to have a day off. I get up when Dad shows up on his way to work to drop Emily off to be fed, and I attend to that, of course, but I don't have to shower. I don't even have to get dressed.

I make Mike's breakfast for the first time in weeks, get to watch him eat it, and I even enjoy doing the dishes afterward, once he's kissed us both good bye and gone to work.

Then I take Emily into the living room, barricade us in, and read a book while she rolls around happily, pausing every now and then to prop herself up on chubby elbows and gum happily on her little fists.

Parents of a new baby will understand why I find it hard to concentrate on my book.

I do, in fact, end up getting down on the floor with her, and talking baby talk to her as she watches me with interest. When my elbows start to numb and my face begins to feel like it's made out of silly putty I know it's time to stop, gather her up in my arms, and put her in her playpen while I shower.

I have a ridiculously long shower - I am quite shriveled by the time I finally see fit to emerge - get dressed, and, seeing that the sun is shining, decide to take Emily and Donovan for a walk.

Emily is the least cooperative of the pair. She doesn't like her snowsuit, but I persist until I finally have her more or less stuffed inside. Then I whistle somewhat breathlessly for Donovan, who comes barreling toward me with glee written all over his wrinkly little face, and locate his leash.

Once Emily is in her stroller, I have shrugged into my coat and Donovan is leashed, I feel safe in opening the front door, and stepping outside.

It's crisp but not cold, and the sun is still blazing. I feel my shoulders loosen under the meagre warmth and ample light, and my stride opens up as well, so we're fairly zipping along as I head toward town.

When I reach the downtown area, I head into Tim Hortons, first pausing to tie Donovan to the railing outside.

"Hi, Sydney!" Rebecca grins. "Why aren't you at work?"

Gotta love Rebecca- if she wants to know something, she just asks.

"I'm on sick leave," I shrug. "Nasty flu bug, or something. Dad flipped when he saw me yesterday, and made me take a couple days. Is the coffee fresh?"

"Isn't it always?" she sniffs with mock affront. "Double double?"

"Please," I nod, so she relays the order and I give her the money, as well as the nickel I owe her. Then I lean against the counter and we talk about Rebecca's family until my coffee is ready, and I take it back outside, where Donovan makes it clear he is offended at being left for so long.

He forgives me quite quickly, though, when I remind him that we're on a walk, so by the time I've untied his leash and juggle leash, stroller and coffee down the ramp his tail is going full speed.

I don't even make it a half dozen yards before I am accosted by Louise, the lady who knit Emily's winter things for her. She promptly envelops me in one of her trademark hugs - nobody can hug like Louise can - and wonders how I'm doing.

"I heard," she adds, her voice tinged with concern, "that you've been sick."

I admit that this is true, but promise I'm already feeling better, and she expresses relief.

"I'm so glad- and you're the just the person I wanted to see, too. The ladies are getting together to quilt tonight, and we were hoping to interest your mother. However," her eyes twinkle, "I suspected she would be less than willing to cooperate, so I was wondering if perhaps you might be able to talk her into it."

The idea of Mom as part of a quilting bee is so appealing I don't even hesitate.

"Of course I'd be happy to help," I say warmly. "I'm going to see her this afternoon-" as of this very minute- "and I'll mention it then."

"Thank you, dear," Louise twinkles at me. "And maybe when Emily has children of her own, your mother will be asking you to join! Now, wouldn't that be something?"

And, chuckling to herself and giving my arm a parting squeeze, she walks on, leaving me to ponder the prospect of being a grandmother.

Now, wouldn't that be something?

***

It takes me a little while to make my way to Mom and Dad's apartment- I keep bumping into people who want to make sure I'm over the flu, and then, once I've assured them I'm 99.9% recovered, want to talk.

By the time I reach Mom and Dad's place, it's almost lunch time, and I am greeted not only by the smell of paint fumes but of something rich and savory.

I recognise it- when I was just little, Mom routinely made the best stew I have ever had, and Dad couldn't get enough of it. For just a second I am five again, standing by the stove and watching her chop up carrots, turnip, potatoes and meat to simmer together in the broth. Then I'm an adult once more, standing with too many things in too small a hallway, and trying to remedy the problem as fast as I can.

"Hello?" I call, juggling Emily and Donovan through the doorway.

"Hello! I'll be right out!" Mom calls. "I'm just- ow! Frank, if I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, the ShopVac goes in the corner when it is not being used, not in the middle of the floor."

"Sorry, Mrs. Bristow, I was just-"

"I don't care to know at the minute, Frank, what you were doing or thinking. I only care to find some ice to put on my shins, and to see you move this blasted contraption out of the way, so I can see who's at the door!"

She appears in short order, clutching her shin and scowling at me. Her forehead quickly smoothes out, though, when she sees who I am, and she moves forward, holding out her arms for a hug.

"Sydney! It's wonderful to see you up and about! Sorry you had to catch me like this- I was hoping to surprise your father with his favourite meal for supper and a finished apartment, but they just don't seem to want to keep their promise."

"We will, Mrs. Bristow," Frank looks injured as he trundles the unwidely ShopVac out of the kitchen and down the hall towards the living room, "we told you we would, so we will."

"You had better," Mom warns ominously. "You had just better. But tell me, Sydney," she turns back to me, all smiles, "how are you feeling? Honestly, now- I promise I won't yell at you even if you came out while you still aren't feeling one hundred percent as of yet."

"I'm fine," I smile, prying Emily out of her stroller and freeing her from her snowsuit, "really, I think it's all over. But how much do you have left to do, anyway? It looks like it's only- well-"

"Half done?" Mom makes a face, looking around at the floor, which is strewn with dropcloths, and the furniture piled in a stack in the middle of the living room draped in old bed sheets.

"Something like that," I admit, and Mom sighs heavily.

"Well, they keep telling me they're almost through, but I'll believe that when I see it. Now, the bedroom isn't too bad- want to go in there? I would," she adds, as Donovan wanders off to investigate and I hold Emily up above my head as we pick our way down the hall, "ask you into the kitchen, but I can't find the table as it is, and the dining room is filled with my clothes."

"Your clothes?" I wrinkle my nose, then almost go sprawling over an antique rocker. "Whoa!"

"Sydney, are you all right?!" Mom reaches out to catch Emily in case I should lose my grip, but I right myself, and carefully step over.

"I'm fine. But you were saying- your clothes?"

"Yes- mine and your father's are covering the dining room table, chairs and the sideboard. We're painting the inside of both the closets. Now,_ that_," Mom adds, nearly colliding with the hat rack that normally sits by the front door, "was your father's idea."

"Dad's? Really? Why?"

"He didn't like the interiors- they were all white. We're going for burgundy in mine, and forest green in his."

"Ooh- very nice. Can I see?"

"Mm-hm, you ca-ah!-an!"

The interjection is caused by Mom's close encounter with a cardboard box into which she puts her foot, and in which she nearly takes a very fast trip into the opposite wall. She recovers admirably, though, and then swings open the door to the master suite.

"Here we are- our safe haven," she sighs, shutting us into the perversely tidy chamber. "Your father and I spend every spare moment we get in here- and you can just lower that eyebrow, young lady!"

I do so with an effort, and look around.

"How do you keep it so clean?"

"I tell them to wipe their feet," Mom says, "and if that doesn't work, I dangle them off the balcony until they decide to listen to me next time. There is a line that must be drawn, and I draw it at my bedroom door- and would you just stop with the eyebrow?!"

It's hard, but I do. Then I lay Emily on the bed and peel her snowsuit off her, so her static-charged hair sticks straight up all over her head in a sort of translucent halo. I give her belly a few noisy raspberries that make her giggle and kick so violently she almost puts out my eye. Then I pass her into her grandmother's outstretched arms, and watch as Mom nuzzles her gently.

"Mm, I love the smell of a baby," she sighs. "There's just something precious about them. Give Grandma kisses, sweetness."

Emily is actually more on the receiving end than the giving, but she doesn't seem to mind, and I grin at the picture of my mother smothering my child with kisses until the tinge of her lipstick is evident on every visible patch of Emily's skin.

"Oh, great- now she looks like she has a rash." I roll my eyes. "What a pair we'll make- me throwing up, and her looking like she's got eczema, or something."

Mom laughs, delighted, and hoists Emily into the air above her head.

"Did you hear what she said about you, Sweetheart?" she wonders. "Your own mother, too! That's just wrong, that is! I think you had better come here to live with Grandma and Grandpa- we'll appreciate you a lot more, I promise."

"Spoil her rotten, you mean," I sniff. "Thank you, no. But that reminds me- I spoke to Louise in town, and she said they want you to join the ladies' quilting circle."

"They _what_?!" Mom looks so horrified I almost feel sorry for her. "Sydney, did you tell her I'd end up bleeding all over their quilt when I pricked my hands to pieces with the needle? I can't sew- I can't even fit the thread through the little hole thingy at the top!"

"The eye?" I query, and she nods vigorously.

"That's it- the eye. See, I don't even know what it's called! I am so far from domestic, we might as well be on opposing teams- I'm amazed that I can even cook. But I guess that anything that has so much to do with math is bound to be easy for me, though, right? But- _quilt_?!"

"I told her," I smile serenely, "that I was sure you would be happy to help out."

For a moment Mom blinks at me, disbelieving. Then she shakes her head abruptly, as if to clear it.

"Okay, you know what? Until you fix this for me, I'm keeping Emily here."

"Mom, you're-"

"No, Sydney, I'm serious. No way am I going to sit on some quilting bee, and-"

"Mom, you can't-"

"No way am I going to be the one to tell her. So you can just-"

"Come on, Mom, give me the baby and-"

"Go and straighten all this out right now, because until you do,"

"Mother!"

"I'm keeping the baby."

All throughout our interaction Mom moves about the room, Emily in her arms, to keep me at bay. She is remarkably adept, especially so when one considers her age, and even more so when you take into account the fact that she is also burdened with thirteen pounds, nine ounces of diaper and infant.

If I were more active than I am, it would be a very short-lived match, but as it is I find it exceedingly hard to keep up with her. At last I vault over the bed, land in front of her, and we tussle for control of a surprised, but far from displeased, Emily. I win, but only barely- Mom is startlingly strong, and as we both try to slip out arms in between Emily and the others' stomach without squeezing the object of our affections, I can't help but notice the subtle ripple and bulge as she struggles to gain control.

"Been working out a lot lately?" I wonder, once I've fallen back, gasping for breath, a chortling Emily held to me. Mom shrugs.

"Often enough."

"Mm. We ought to have a match some time."

"The experienced generation against the inexperienced?" she wonders, her eyes twinkling. I roll my own.

"You just don't want to say older against younger, do you, Mom?"

"Older," she sniffed, "connotes an impression I do not care to cultivate about myself. I am sure your father would feel the same way. But it's a date, then? You and Michael against your father and me?"

"You're serious, aren't you?" I am amused and intrigued all at once. "Where- the gym?"

"Oh, no," Mom shakes her head. "Get Emily a sitter for a night, and we'll go to Beech Hill Park. This could be fun."

Beech Hill Park is a hundred or so kilometers of dirt, grass and paved trails winding around and across each other at the top of Walker Road, near the highway that leads to Moncton. In the summer it's delightful, in the fall it's pleasant and in the spring it's nice enough, if a little soft, but in winter? In the dark?

I hate to admit it, but I'm actually intrigued.

"When do you think we could?" I wonder.

"Well," she says brightly, "are you doing anything tonight?"

"Mom, you have got to be kid-"

"No, I don't. Why have I got to be? At any rate, I'm not. I am perfectly serious. What's wrong with tonight?"

I consider this.

"If I agree to go tonight," I say at last, "will you join the ladies' quilting circle?"

I expected her to say no without even thinking about it, but she actually thinks about it before shaking her head.

"Not a chance."

"Fine. Then Mike and I will spend a quiet evening at home with Emily and the animals, and you and Dad will have to lock yourselves into your bedroom while the workers bang around out there. Sound like fun?"

Mom smirks.

"Sydney, love, how long have you been married? It can't have been so long that the prospect of a night alone does not appeal to you. I will remind you that your father and I were only re-married three months ago. And," she adds, "enough with the eyebrow already!"

"All right, Mom," I raise my voice significantly, so the workmen will be sure to hear it, "I hope you and Dad enjoy yourselves."

"Sydney!" she is torn between mortification and hysterical laughter. "Sydney, if you were even ten years younger I would turn you over my knee and-"

"I love you too, Mom," I lean over and kiss her cheek. "Gotta run- if I'm gonna have the whole night with nothing to do, I guess the house had better be clean to do nothing in."

She follows me to the door, shaking with laughter.

"Your father spoiled you," she decides, watching me bundle Emily back into her snowsuit. "That's the only explanation I can come up with. He spoiled you rotten- no child of mine would ever behave like this if I'd had a hand in her upbringing."

I snort.

"Oh, yeah, I'm sure. Look, Mom, I have to go. If you do decide to help out Louise and Winifred and everybody else, then give me a call, and I'll pick you up at the church when you're done, okay?"

Mom smiles tolerantly.

"Have a nice day, dear. Don't wear yourself out, and do keep dreaming."

I smile, and wedge Emily into her stroller before I pull Mom into a tight hug.

"I love you," I murmur into her shoulder. "Now, take it easy on these guys, won't you?"

She rolls her eyes but promises to try as I whistle for Donovan. He shows up speckled with fluffy down, and upon inspection of the guest room it becomes apparent that he declared war on what was once a pillow. I scold him roundly all the way back to the door (Mom almost falls flat on her face over the ShopVac, and I go careening into the linen closet when I trip myself up getting my feet tangled in the cord) where I leash him, and haul him outside.

Mom's "come back soon!" follows us to the end of the hall, where it's a bit of a struggle to maneuver Emily down the stairs, but I manage well enough. Then I hustle all of us out the front door, and take a deep breath of the air.

It's crisp, cold and cutting- the temperature has dropped considerably, especially so considering that it's not even mid-October yet. I tug my jacket out of the basket under the stroller and shrug into it, and catch, as I do, a flash of black coat and winter-white blonde hair out of the corner of my eye. It makes me tense, and look up, terrified of what I might see.

But it's only a woman I don't know, her hand tucked securely into her tiny son's, hurrying him home from school. He looks barely big enough to be in kindergarten, tiny little legs churning to keep up with her longer ones.

I smile, imagining Emily at that age- will she be as tall as Mike and I were? Will she walk fast, like we do? How long will her hair be? Will it be sticking out from under her little winter hat in braids with ribbons on the end, the way mine did? I'd had long, silky hair until Mom disappeared and Dad, who couldn't braid to save his life, had it all chopped off to my chin.

I bend over Emily, and make faces at her, much to her delight. She shrieks, giggles, and claps the sleeves of her snowsuit together (since it's an infant snowsuit, there are no wrist holes, which means lots of drool all over the ends of the sleeves).

"Where do you want to go now, Sweetheart?" I wonder, and before I can even think of an answer to my own question, a car pulls up beside me. I look up to find Fiona, yet another member of our church family, beaming at me from behind the wheel.

"Hi, Sydney! Do you and Emily have plans, or do you want to come out to the church with me? I'm meeting Craig- he and some of the men have been putting up Thanksgiving decorations all day, and I'm worried he'll miss his supper if I don't get him now,"

I decide that this seems as good a plan as ever, so once I convert the stroller into a car seat, bundle the excess into the trunk and buckle Emily into the back seat beside Fiona's son Ben, I get into the passenger seat. Donovan, curled up between the two baby seats, snorts happily at the newfound warmth as Fiona pulls away from the curb.

"Were you visiting Laura?" she wonders, eyeing a red sedan whose driver appears to be deliberating the pros and cons of turning left.

"Yes- the apartment doesn't look anywhere near finished, which is really a shame, because I know she was counting on getting it done."

"That's too bad," Fiona sympathizes. "The holidays are the worst time to be doing renovations, too- are all of you having dinner at your house, then?"

"Well, the plan still seems to be that we'll eat at Mom and Dad's, but I'm beginning to wonder. I just don't like to say anything to Mom- I really think she still believes it will get done on time."

"She knows I'm praying for her," Fiona explains, her eyes sparkling as she glances over at me. "So, have things settled down at all? I know that the last time I talked with you, you were pretty wrung out."

"Yes, I suppose I was," I wince, remembering the way I had burst into tears on the younger woman's shoulder. "But yeah, I'm feeling a lot better now, thanks."

"I'm glad. I was a little worried when you ran out of service last week, and when Mike said you'd had the flu for a little while, I wished I wasn't going down to see Mum, or else I'd have come over to help out. I know how yucky that gets, especially with a baby in the house."

I smile, and thank her for her concern.

"But Mom and Dad both helped out, and Mike was like a mother hen- it was more funny than anything else, really."

"Have you thought about getting the flu shot?" Fiona wonders, skillfully swinging the car out around the battered, damp remnants of what had once been a cardboard box. "Craig and I both got it- we don't want to pass anything on to Ben."

"I thought about it," I nod, "but I've got this crazy thing about needles, and since I've already had the flu . . ."

"Sure," Fiona nods understandingly. "I understand completely. It knocks you out of commission for a while, though, doesn't it? Last winter I missed a month of choir practices because of it- ooh, that reminds me!" her eyes flash, and a delighted grin spreads across her face. "Has anybody mentioned this year's cantata to you?"

"No- why?"

"Well, I understand they were hoping that you would play Mary, and that Emily could play Jesus."

"But she'd be ten months old- wouldn't she be a little big by then?"

"Maybe, but who would we have who's smaller?" Fiona points out, so I promise to consider it.

"How's Ben been doing?" I wonder, and her face lights up. We swap baby stories for the last few minutes of the ride to the church, where Fiona pulls up parallel to the main doors in a spray of gravel.

"You've been driving a lot more," I observe, as we get out of the car to examine her tidy stop. She flushes with pride.

"Does it show? You know I don't usually like to. But of course, I can't ask Craig to chauffeur me everywhere, and- well- necessity is the mother of invention, after all, right?"

I agree that this seems to be the widely accepted principle as we pry our bundled-up children from their safety seats, and Fiona lets Ben totter uncertainly up to the door while I shoulder Emily's bulky form, and tell Donovan to stay put.

Then I follow Fiona into the church, where we find a generous distribution of ladders, decorations and gentleman of ages running anywhere from seven to seventy. Fiona singles out her husband with the adeptness of a wife who is still not quite comfortable with letting the love of her life out of her sight for more than a few minutes, and hustles Ben over to greet his daddy.

Craig is delighted to see them, and as I watch their reunion I can't help but think they could very well have not seen each other for a year, rather than a day. I turn Emily around, so she can watch too.

"I think," I tell her, "that your daddy is going to be pretty happy to see you, too, don't you?"

She gurgles contentedly, reaching one little hand out to try to touch a floating turkey.

"Ba-ba?"

"Hmm," I sigh, settling her down into my arms once more. "Yeah. Ba-ba."

For somebody who can't talk, she has quite a way with words.

***

Fiona drops me off in time for me to put something together for supper, and then I sit on the floor and try rolling a ball toward Emily, and convincing her to roll it back. She doesn't quite get the point, and contents herself with striking it with every ounce of strength in those chubby little arms, and watching it bounce a little.

Donovan, who knows that isn't how the game is supposed to work, eyes the pair of us with evident concern, but I reassure him that she'll get it, eventually- it just takes a little time. He doesn't appear completely reassured but he lets it go at that, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings.

I'm still trying to show her how it's supposed to go when a key scrapes in the door, and Donovan takes off, barking, to throw himself against it in desperate greeting.

"Get back!" I yell at him, scooping Emily up and making my way into the hall. "Get back, get down, and stay that way. If I have to speak to you once more, I'll- oh, hi, Daddy. I thought you were Mike."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Dad decides, leaning in to hug me. "But it's only half past two- why were you expecting him already?"

"I don't know- just that time of day, I guess. But he should be home soon enough."

"Actually," Dad says apologetically, "that's what I came to mention. He called to say he was going to be at least an hour later than usual, if not longer. There's some work, or something, that he has to go over."

"Well, then why didn't he call me?" I can't explain why I'm worried, but I am. Maybe it has something to do with the psychopath who's lurking around town, plotting my eventual demise.

"I think he did. Have you checked your messages?"

I haven't. I blush, and excuse myself to head into the kitchen, and play them back.

"You have five new messages," a little automated man informs me. "First message."

"Hi, guys!" chirps a familiar voice. "It's Rachel calling! Just wanted to remind you, Mike, that you've got yard duty the last week in October, and Sydney, if you guys haven't got plans for the twentieth, we'd love to have you over. Call me!"

I make a note of that, delete the message, and listen to the automated fellow once again.

"Next message."

"Sydney, it's Floyd from the greenhouse. Just checking on that order of seeds you wanted by April- were they mums, or gladiolas? Give me a call, please."

Note, delete.

"Next message," automated person announces.

"Hey, Vaughns, I see I've missed you yet again. It's Janice. I was hoping to see you before I left for Chicago- can you give me a call as soon as you get in? Thanks!"

Note, delete.

"Next message." (surely he'd figure I know that by now?)

"Syd, honey, I wish you wouldn't take off like that on me. Now I'm going to be wondering if you're even in New Brunswick anymore. I wish you'd let me charge your cell for you. Anyway, I'm sure - hoping - that you're fine, and just decided to take Emily for a little walk or something. I'll be home later tonight, but I should definitely be there in time for supper, okay? I love you, Sweetheart. Hugs and kisses to Emily. Bye."

Nod, relieved, and then, just as I am about to hang up-

"Next message" says Mr. Automated.

Breathing.

That's all.

Just heavy, almost over-exaggerated breathing.

Like somebody had a cold. And they forgot to leave the message.

Because nobody talks.

Just breathes.

Until the time runs out, and the machine beeps, and Mr. Automated tells me I have no more messages, and I am frozen for a minute before I finally remember to delete it.

I turn to Dad, forcing a cheery smile in the face of his suspicion.

"Well, you're right- he called."

"He told me he had," Dad nods. "Sydney-"

"Yes?" I keep my face expressionless, my eyes ever-so-slightly widened to keep from blinking.

"Are you sure there's nothing wrong?"

"No, I'm not sure of that at all. I'm quite worn out- I probably shouldn't have taken that walk, but I did, so now I'll just take advantage of my extra time and lie down."

"All right," Dad looks unsure, but not quite ready to contest my assertion. Rather, he leans down to hug and kiss me once more, kisses Emily on her forehead, and tells me he'll see me tomorrow.

I nod, smiling perkily.

"You can count on it!"

Then I see him out the door, which I promptly shut, bolt, and lean my forehead against. I take long, deep breaths until Emily cranes her neck to look up into my face, which she touches hesitantly.

"Ba-ba?"

"It's all right, Sweetie," I whisper, sliding down to the floor and tucking her head in safely under my chin. "It's all right. Mommy's just had a bit of a shock, is all. She'll be fine in a minute."

"Ba-ba," Emily frowns, and pats my cheek, as if trying to locate the smile I usually keep there. I manage a little laugh.

"It's all right, Sweetheart, really it is. Mommy will be fine. See? Just fine."

I raise my hand to cover hers, and play with the tiny fingers.

"Just fine," I repeat, trying to convince myself as much as I am trying to convince her. "Now, why don't we see if there's anything for us to munch on until Daddy comes home?"

So saying, I pick her up and head into the kitchen, Donovan trotting along behind in hopes of procuring any crumb or two that we might happen to drop.

***

"And when he'd eaten them all up, he was still hungry!" I tell Emily for the tenth time, much later that night. She gurgles and grins, and slaps the book with delight. She loves the Hungry Caterpillar.

"Well, Miss Muffet," I sigh, once I've completed the story and refused to comply with her insistent slap on the book, demanding yet another repeat, "I wonder what could be keeping your daddy. It's almost five o'clock- he's going to miss dinner if he doesn't get here soon."

She studies me with bewilderment, and I glance out the window into the darkening afternoon.

"It's not like him to be this late . . ."

Even as I say the words, a pair of headlights can be seen swinging into the driveway, and my heart nearly stops at the relief of seeing them.

"Thank you, God, thank you, thank you," I gasp, jumping to my feet so fast I send the Hungry Caterpillar flying into an end table, and toppling a plant I had housed there.

I don't even stop to scoop the dirt back into the pot, but rather head straight to the front door, debating along the way whether I will kiss him or kill him first. I eventually reach the conclusion that neither would fully express my sentiments at this precise moment, and decide to play it by ear.

Before I can even open the door to run out to meet, greet and beat him, Mike opens it himself, a look of decided unease on his face- like he has something to tell me, and isn't sure about how I am going to take it. Or rather, he is entirely too sure about how I am going to take it, and is not looking forward to the scene in the least.

My half-relieved, half-furious greeting dies on my lips when I see the reason for this expression- the company he has brought with him.

My heart stills, my palms grow clammy, and I look at him in utter bewilderment.

"Mike?"

"I'm sorry, Sydney," he says, "I had to."

I feel my knees start to buckle, and as the room grows hazy and Mike jumps forward to catch me before I lose consciousness, I am conscious of two thoughts. First,

__

I thought I'd kicked this habit by now.

And second,

__

What are we going to do?

***

***

Hehe- any guesses as to who Mike brought home with him? I'd love to hear 'em! And the next chapter should be coming along sooner or later, I think- it all depends on how much time I have on my hands over the holidays.

Which reminds me- any American readers out there (I know there are quite a few of you) who are wondering what the heck they're doing celebrating Thanksgiving in October don't know that the Canadian Thanksgiving takes place in October, not November. Only, now you do know that, so now you understand completely. Right?

Now, in regards to length, this is what I've decided what to do. I think.

I believe that this is going to be a two-part story, and I hope to make a trilogy altogether (including Five Years, and counting the two parts as one book) that each cover the span of three months. That way we'll have come around a whole year by the time I'm done. I don't for the life of me know what they're all going to be about, but I do know I want to try this, so we'll just have to see what happens.

In the meantime, I would love, love, LOVE to hear from you! Reviews are absolutely wonderful, and as well as the wonderful positive comments I've been getting and would love to keep getting, I would especially appreciate it if you guys could try to catch me on any continuity glitches, which is the thing I find I have the most trouble with when writing. Thanks so much!


	6. Chapter Five

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Here's chapter five, ladies and gentlemen! I hope you enjoy it, and I hope that you tell me so if you do. Even if you don't, tell me why, and I'll see if I can make it better- feedback is just wonderful!

I'd also like to dedicate this chapter as well. It's for Buddy, who, even though he will likely never know it, was my inspiration for Archie. What a sweetie!

Now, enjoy!

***

*** 

Before I can even open the door to run out to meet, greet and beat him, Mike opens it himself, a look of decided unease on his face- like he has something to tell me, and isn't sure about how I am going to take it. Or rather, he is entirely too sure about how I am going to take it, and is not looking forward to the scene in the least.

My half-relieved, half-furious greeting dies on my lips when I see the reason for this expression- the company he has brought with him.

My heart stills, my palms grow clammy, and I look at him in utter bewilderment.

"Mike?"

"I'm sorry, Sydney," he says, "I had to."

I feel my knees start to buckle, and as the room grows hazy and Mike jumps forward to catch me before I lose consciousness, I am conscious of two thoughts. First,

__

I thought I'd kicked this habit by now.

And second,

__

What are we going to do?

***

I come around only a minute later on the couch. Mike is kneeling in front of me, smoothing my hair back from my face.

"Syd?" to say he's relieved would be putting it mildly. "Thank Heaven. I'm sorry to spring it on you like that- I didn't really have a choice."

"You mean," I frown, "somebody held a gun to your head?"

"Well- no."

"To mine?"

"No."

"To Emily's?"

"No."

"To anybody's?"

"His."

I look at where he is pointing, and wince.

"A gun?"

"Well- a needle. But the result would have been the same."

I grimace.

"Help me sit up."

"Are you sure-"

"Yes, I'm sure. I'm not made of glass, you know."

I fight to push myself upright.

"Now- I want your excuse. And it had better be a good one, because it seems to me that the bigger they are, the bigger the excuse is gonna have to be."

"You really think he's that big?" Mike glances over his shoulder at our guest.

"Michael, he is enormous. He- he's a pony! I thought we agreed, no horses until Emily was at least seven!"

"Sydney, he isn't a pony, he's- well, I'm not exactly sure what he is, but he's pretty impressive, isn't he?"

"Impressive," I mutter, "does not even begin to describe him."

Michael brought home- a something.

I would call it a dog, but I am sure they don't make dogs that size.

It would be deceptive to make a dog that size.

People would think it was a horse.

It would be wrong, I decide, to make a dog that size.

But there it is.

And Mike brought it home.

I shake my head, bewildered.

"Why?"

"Well," Mike tries, "you did say you were worried about security-"

"Oh, don't hand me that!" I snap.

"Well," Mike says defensively, "look at him!"

I oblige. It's hard to do otherwise- he fills every square inch of available space.

"Do you think anybody's going to try getting in here if he's here?" Mike wonders, and I have to admit that I know very few people who would be so stupid.

"But," I point out, "how many of our friends are going to want to come in, either?"

"There is that," Mike agrees, "but I'm sure they'll get used to him. He seems really docile."

"Oh, sure, he seems that way," I frown. "Then, the moment our backs are turned, he'll rip apart half the house."

"I'm sure he won't do that," Mike comforts me. "Let's at least give him a chance, all right? He deserves that much, doesn't he?"

I look at the newcomer with undisguised suspicion. At last, I speak.

"Does it have a name?"

"Yeah. Archie."

"Archie?"

"Yeah. Archie. Of course," he says quickly, "if you don't like it, we can change it."

"No, no- Archie is fine." I eye him dubiously. "Hi, Archie."

He wags his tail, and promptly upsets the end table that I had only just deprived of its plant. It falls onto the pot, smashing it to bits, and startling Archie, who, with a single bound, is in my lap, spilling over onto the back of the couch as he wraps his massive, bony front paws around me, quivering in terror.

"Oh, yeah," I roll my eyes into a fold or two of velvety fur, "this one's gonna be real fierce, Mike, I can see it now."

Mike is blushing as he pries Archie off of me, and hauls him down onto the floor. He lands with a bone-jarring thud that shakes the house from cellar to ceiling, and I wince.

"Why me?" I wonder. "I could've had a goldfish. Instead I got married, and got you."

"Would you trade me for a goldfish?" Mike wonders, and I have to smile.

"Not a chance," I decide, then reach up to pull his face down to mine.

"Now," I murmur into his ear, "how about a little supper?"

***

I am just clearing away the dishes when the phone purrs apologetically. I make a face at it- Emily had been falling asleep, too.

"I've got it," Mike says, getting up and heading over to lift the receiver. "Hello? Oh, hi- yes, she's right here."

I take the phone from him, and gesture for him to finish with the dishes while I hold a conversation. He nods, and moves to do so while I put the phone to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Sydney?" it's Mom.

"Oh- hi! How are you?"

"I'm fine, Dear. I was just wondering if now would be a good time for you to come and get me."

"Get you?" I blink, bewildered. "Why?"

"Well, didn't you say that you'd pick me up at the church? I've already called your father, and he's quite keen on this whole match in Beech Hill, so if you're up to it, Rose will take Emily for us and we can have a little fun."

"You are- you- the church?"

"Yes, dear. The place of worship in which we spend approximately twenty-five percent of our waking hours. I am there. I don't plan to walk to the park, and you said you would pick me up, so I called."

"You- you went to the quilting circle?"

"Yes, of course, dear," there is a touch of mild reproof in Mom's tone. "They're very nice ladies."

***

Once I have recovered from my initial shock, I say I will be there in a few minutes, and hang up. Then I lay the situation out for Mike, and I would be lying if I said he was anything less than enthusiastic about the whole thing.

"This could be great," he announces. "I mean, this could be seriously great."

"Michael, we're talking trained secret agents in the cold darkness of a deserted public park. How can this be great?"

"It will be fun!" he beams, and I wonder why I had to marry such a _guy_.

"Mike, having my face pounded into the ground by my mother is not my idea of fun."

"You think they'll beat us?" he frowns.

I roll my eyes.

"I think it's a distinct possibility, yes. They aren't exactly amateurs. But it doesn't even matter who wins- what matters is the fact that we're actually seriously considering going out to play spy games in pitch blackness in a park!"

"Well," Mike points out logically, "who better to play them than us?"

I sigh.

"I'll get my coat . . ."

***

Once we've dropped off Emily and collected Mom, Mike drives us to the park. I grumble the whole way about how ridiculous this is, and Mom smiles ever-so-complacently, the way mothers will do when they're getting their own way.

"You'll enjoy yourself, Sydney," she assures we with tones of greatest serenity, "I know you will."

"That's what you said when I was going to that sleepover at whatserface's."

"Jennifer Cohen?"

"Mom, how do you remember-"

"How could I forget? You came home in tears."

"I told you I would be miserable, didn't I? And you made me go anyway."

"Sweetie, I was mistaken, all right? I'm sorry about that. Even the best of us make mistakes, from time to time. But I'm not mistaken about this, dear. Trust me."

I roll my eyes.

"Yeah, sure. Where have I heard that one before?"

Mom laughs, and Mike smiles.

If you want sympathy, get a dog.

***

Dad is waiting by the entrance, the car already parked. He is dressed warmly, in dark clothes that will not restrict his movement. When he sees us, he straightens, smiles, and waves. He waits until Mike has parked the car before he comes over, and helps Mom out. She claps her gloved hands together, smiling with anticipatory delight.

"So how do we want to do this?" she wonders. "I mean, I don't want it to drag on all night, because of course Rose doesn't want to keep Emily for that long, but would it be ridiculous to stay until midnight at least? That would give us a good four hours, which would be an all right length, don't you think?"

"Well," I shrug, "I think it's ridiculous to begin with, so I'm really not the best person to ask for input."

"Mike?" Mom turns to him, and I can see he is trying hard not to reveal the full extent of his delight.

"Uh, yeah- midnight should fine, shouldn't it, Syd? Unless you wanted to ask Rose if she could keep Emily all night, so we could at least stay out until three, or maybe even-"

I make a face at him, and he nods quickly.

"Midnight it is."

"Excellent," Dad decides. "Now, shall we break up and give ourselves- oh, let's say five minutes to discuss game plan? Then we start."

"What's our objective?" I ask skeptically. "and please don't tell me you've hidden little orange flags around the place for us to capture, because if that's the case, this ends right here and now."

"No," Dad says with dignity, "I brought these for us to carry."

He holds out a plain leather bracelet each.

"This is your objective. Each of us will be wearing one, and each team has to obtain the other team's bracelets for them to be victorious."

"I cannot believe I'm out here," I mutter, taking the bracelet and buckling it to my wrist, "I really cannot believe this."

"Can we take the North side?" Mike asks, and Dad nods.

"To begin with, sure."

"Great!" Mike enthuses, then turns to me. "Come on, Sweetie, let's get a head start."

I roll my eyes.

Sometimes, I don't know why I even bother.

***

It is pitch black in that park, and even though Mike is leading me along he may as well not bother, because he can't see any better than I can. This makes the third tree he's smacked me up against, and I am anticipating a nice array of bruises by the time I get home when he halts, and turns to more or less face me.

"Want to discuss our game plan?" he wonders.

"Not particularly," I frown. "Not unless it involves us, at home, in a nice, warm bed together."

"Aw- darn," I can almost hear his face fall. "If I'd known that was an option, I'd have never agreed to come."

"Well, you didn't ask, did you?" I sniff. "And it's too late now, isn't it? So let's discuss your precious game plan."

"It's nothing half as good as that," he says, and I can still hear the frown in his tone.

"Well," I snap, "that certainly wouldn't do us any good right now, would it? So you're going to have to come up with something more practical than that."

Mike pouts. I know he does. I can see it as clearly as if it were broad daylight outside. I feel myself giving in.

"Come on, Mike," I coax him, "let's look at this sensibly, all right? There's two of them and two of us. How hard can it be?"

***

How hard indeed.

I had no desire to tell Mike exactly how hard it could - likely would - be. My father is deadly, and my mother? She's the best there is. But you don't say that to the husband who is happily plotting out strategies. You just smile, even though it's too dark for him to see it, and nod, even though it's really too dark for him to see that, either, and listen with wifely devotion.

It works every time.

Probably my least favourite part of his plan is that we should split up. Splitting up is never a good plan. It's just a good plot device when authors want their characters to get caught. But I guess nobody told Mike that, because he wants us to split up.

I humour Mike.

Five minutes later, flat on my back with Mom smiling cheerfully down at me, I'm wishing I hadn't.

"Hi, Sweetie," she smiles, "enjoying yourself?"

"I could lie," I suggest, and take her legs out from under her, scrambling to mine. She rolls and comes up in a crouch, then makes a disapproving negative motion with her head.

"Oh, no, don't do that."

She lashes out at my own legs. I dance back, take a swing at her, and she dodges sideways, grabbing my wrist and tumbling me down onto my stomach.

"If you aren't having fun," she goes on, "then that's fine."

I wrench free, and tackle her, but she quickly ends up on top again, and ponders,

"It's good exercise, though, don't you agree?"

"Very," I admit, and then thrust my legs out and up, sending her flying over my head.

I'm on my feet in a heartbeat, running. No way am I stupid enough to try and take her on. She pursues, but I swing up into a nearby birch, and double back until I'm behind and above her, looking down. I watch as the pale, white smudge that is her face turns about every whichway, listening for me.

I try to space my breathing, and remain as still as a statue, watching her. She is unwilling to admit she's lost me, and prowls about for some ten or fifteen minutes like some sort of lioness, stalking as-yet unseen prey.

She gives me shivers. How can somebody so sweet and good be so deadly? There is no doubt in my mind that should the need arise, she would be perfectly capable of killing. Not that she would enjoy it, or even deem it justifiable, as she may have done in the past. But if it were necessary - say, to protect her family - she would, I know, easily kill without reservation. With remorse, certainly, but hesitation? No.

I stay in the tree long after it seems that she has gone, and only come down when I see Michael sneaking along below me.

"Syd?" he looks at me in confusion. "What are you-"

"Mom found me," I shrug.

"Aw, man . . . Did she get the bracelet?"

"No, I got away. How are you doing?"

"I don't know- not sure. I haven't got a clue where your father is, and it's kind of making me nervous."

"I can identify," I murmur, moving in a little closer to him, and turning in a slow circle to scan the dark shapes that make up trees, rocks, and, possibly, my parents. "I can really identify."

"Mm," his arms go around me, and he buries his nose in my ponytail. "You smell good . . ."

"Mike!" I break away, and give his arm a little swat. "It's partially your fault that we're even here, so don't you get any ideas now! You think about getting us out of this, and maybe, if I'm not too tired when we get home, we'll see what happens."

"Right." He immediately begins thinking so hard that I am sure his three-wrinkled forehead will freeze in that position. I smile, reach over, and smooth them out with one gloved finger.

"If you keep that up," I say gently, "you're going to hurt yourself."

"Oh?" I can almost see the wry twist to his mouth. "And what would you suggest I do?"

"Take my hand," I smile into the darkness, "and follow me."

***

Beech Hill Park is really quite enormous. I don't know how many acres, precisely, it covers, but I do believe we've covered most of them by the time we halt behind a fair-sized fir, and peek around to see whose shadowy form is lurking against the pale outline of a large rock.

"Your mother?" Mike asks hopefully, and I shake my head.

"No. Look at those shoulders."

He does, and his face is so close to mine that I can feel him grimace.

"Darn."

"You mean, you _want_ to deal with Mom?" I arch an eyebrow. "Have you ever _seen_ her in action?"

"Well, not recently, but yeah. And yes, I know she's good, but there's just something about your father . . ." Mike says hesitantly, and I nod.

"The intimidation factor. That's some stare he's got on him, isn't it?"

He's blushing. I just know he's blushing.

I smile.

I love my husband.

"So, what do we do?" he wonders, and I consider this.

"We'll have to take him together," I decide, "otherwise we don't stand a chance."

"Even together," Mike says nervously, "the odds aren't that good."

"Mike," I roll my eyes, "will you stop that already?! He's your father-in-law! You don't have to be scared of him!"

"But he's Jack Bristow," Mike points out, "so yes, I do."

I smother a snort.

"Right, yeah, whatever. Now, on my signal, all right?"

"I have a better idea," Mom says perkily from behind us, "how 'bout on mine?"

I groan as we turn slowly around, our embarrassment masked only by the near-blackness of the night.

"Really," Mums scolds, "I could have heard you two halfway to Amherst if I'd had a mind to. Much too obvious for you to be discussing game strategy out in the open like this. Isn't that right, Jack?"

Dad doesn't respond.

"Jack?" Mum frowns, then raises her voice. "Hey! Bristow!"

Dad jumps, and spins around.

"Laura, shush! Do you want them to know where we- oh, you got them."

Mom rolls her eyes. I know she does. I just know it.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Jack-"

I take advantage of the momentary distraction to give Michael a hefty boot in his rear, sending him careening into Mom, who loses her balance under the dead weight and topples to the ground.

I spin around to face Dad, but I don't quite make it in time, and he tackles me as well.

Mike hauls Mom to her feet, her arm twisted behind her back, and Dad does the same with me. They eye each other.

Classic standoff.

It's almost a little _too_ real.

"Well?" Dad prompts after a lengthy silence.

"Well?" Mike returns. "Where does it go from here?"

"You tell me," Dad suggests. "I have your wife, and you have mine. Let's discuss this."

"All right," Mike agrees, "let's."

Actually, they don't get much discussion in. The second I feel Dad's fingers moving over the wrist on which I am wearing the bracelet, I shove a heel into his instep. I feel more than slightly guilty as he grunts and doubles over, but I don't have much time to think about it, because with an effort Mom sends Mike flying over her head.

He lands with a thud, and I haul him to his feet just before Mom can tackle us.

"Run!" I bark, and we take off.

Mom and Dad come closer to catching us this time than they did before, but we manage to escape by dropping under a fir tree and huddling together in absolute silence, watching as they run past.

"Is it just me," I whisper, "or is this getting way too real?"

"I think," Mike says, "that's what they're going for."

"Really?" I wrinkle my nose. "Why?"

"Well, I think that the whole spy thing comes more naturally to some people than it does to others. Your parents- well, they obviously enjoy this. You, on the other hand, would be just as happy at home, right?"

I consider.

"Well, yes, in a way. I'm really tired right now, and I'm a little chilly- stop that, you nut!" I swat his hands away. "I don't need you to warm me up like _that_! But no, I wouldn't rather be at home. I like this, you know? It seems like- well, it's probably not what most families do for recreation, but to each their own, right? And I guess- I guess that this is our own. And I can live with that."

I can feel Mike grinning at me.

"What?" I ask, a little self-consciously.

"You," he says.

"What about me?"

"Well- you're amazing."

I feel myself blushing.

"Mike, I already told you, wait until we get home, and if I'm not too tired-"

"No! I mean, you are. You really are amazing. You'd rather not be here, and you're still enjoying yourself just because you get to be with your family. That's- that's amazing, Sydney. And it's just one of the reasons I am madly in love with you."

His lips find mine, and who knows where it would go, if it weren't for the bright light suddenly shining in our eyes.

"Now, enough of that, you two," Mom scolds from behind her flashlight. "It's midnight, and we're going home."

Blushing, I scramble out from under the tree.

"You did very well," Mom approves, as we head for the car. "Maybe we'll try this again sometime soon, and see if we can't actually have one side win, hmm?"

We agree that this sounds reasonable, and then the four of us head for the cars together, Mike and I walking hand in hand, and Mom and Dad's actions mirroring our own.

***

We drive first to pick up Emily, and Rose meets us at the door.

"She's sound asleep," she smiles, as if not all infants would be at twelve in the morning, "and if you ever want somebody to watch her, I am more than readily available."

We thank her, and Mike carefully transports our sleeping daughter out to the car.

"She's so beautiful," I sigh, once we're back n the front seat and heading for home.

"Who, Rose?" Mike grins, and I swat him so hard he nearly swerves off the road.

"A little less energetically, Sydney," he says plaintively, "would still have gotten your point across."

I apologise, and link my arm through the one I so rudely assaulted only moments before.

"You know," I muse, "Mom and Dad didn't say anything about tomorrow being called off. Do you suppose the apartment is actually ready, or that Mom's convinced him to give her right up to meal time until she concedes defeat?"

"Your mother?" Mike snorts, "Concede defeat? Not likely. Not in this century, anyway."

I have to admit he is probably right.

"But she didn't say the apartment was finished- maybe she clubbed Dad into submission, or something. Whatever it is-" I break off, and smother a massive yawn with my gloved hand. "Unhh, I'm tired."

"You've been through a lot," Mike points out, "and keeping this from your parents can't make it any easier."

"Mike, please, I've already been over this with you. There is no way I'm going to go through mass hysteria just to appease my parents. It's unnecessary, so I am not going to do it. Simple as that. Understand?"

Mike sighs, but nods, and swings into our driveway.

"I understand," he says quietly, "but can you understand where I'm coming from? I love you and Emily so, so much, Sydney- more than anything else in the world, I love you. Your parents are the same way, and what they do- why they would react the way they would - is only because of how much they love you, and want to keep you safe."

I wince.

I hate it when he's right like that.

Even worse is when he makes me feel guilty by being right.

Worse still is that he makes me feel guilty without meaning to, and then if I say anything about it to him, he feels guilty as well.

Gotta love this thing called marriage.

***

Once we've ever-so-carefully deposited Emily in her crib, we tiptoe down the hall into our own bedroom, and as Mike walks over to set the alarm clock, I sink onto the bed.

"Ugh," I grunt, as the room does a little somersault.

Mike looks up at me, surprised.

"Syd? You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. I guess that all of that running around made me a bit dizzy, is all."

"That's fine, Sweetheart- you just need to get some rest," he decides, and not only does he pass me my pyjamas (I haven't the heart to tell him that the top and bottom are from different sets) but he helps me lie down and tucks me in as well, and then lies down beside me to rub my back until I drift off to sleep.

Yessir, you gotta love this thing called marriage.

***

***

Okay, that's about it for now, I guess. I'll try to get the next chapter up before too long, because I'm really starting to have fun with this fic again, but there's so much going on right now that it might be a while. Besides having to deal with school things and the upcoming holiday, I am currently working on ten different Alias fics, and I really think I'm going to have to cut back, or suffer burnout. Anyway- I promise I'll do what I can!

And please, review!


	7. Chapter Six

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Chapter six is now up (well, yeah, I guess you knew that, seeing as you're kind of reading it right now . . .) and I want to thank you for all of your wonderful reviews. I write because I enjoy it, but when I find out other people like my work as well, I enjoy it that much more!

That said, I'd love to know what you think of this chapter. You can let me know here, or at abi_gal7@yahoo.ca or even both places, if you like!

Now please read, and enjoy.

***

*** 

Once we've ever-so-carefully deposited Emily in her crib, we tiptoe down the hall into our own bedroom, and as Mike walks over to set the alarm clock, I sink onto the bed.

"Ugh," I grunt, as the room does a little somersault.

Mike looks up at me, surprised.

"Syd? You okay?"

"Yeah. I'm fine. I guess that all of that running around made me a bit dizzy, is all."

"That's fine, Sweetheart- you just need to get some rest," he decides, and not only does he pass me my pyjamas (I haven't the heart to tell him that the top and bottom are from different sets) but he helps me lie down and tucks me in as well, and then lies down beside me to rub my back until I drift off to sleep.

Yessir, you gotta love this thing called marriage.

***

Saturday morning dawns with a weak grey sky that, had the temperatures been any colder, would have suggested snow. As things are, though, I decide we're going to be in for some rain as I reach over to my nightstand, and locate my Bible.

I've been depressingly lax in my devotions lately, and I had resolved the night before to get back into my regular early-morning routine. Mike slumbers away beside me as I pour over Romans, highlighting a few verses and scribbling notes beside a few others. I'm just about ready to start praying when I hear Emily's polite wails from down the hall.

Smiling, I untangle my legs from the covers, being careful not to wake Mike, and let my feet slide down to the floor. I am startled to find that they are faintly chilled- autumn is in full swing, and it will be winter soon enough. I had better, I decide, start looking for snow shovels. Mike broke our last one trying to prop up the drainpipe the previous spring, and I don't allow the snow blower on the front walk because it has a habit of ripping my flowers up, so Mike has to shovel it or risk the gardener's wrath.

Now I make my way to Emily's room, where I warm my feet on the rug by her changing table as I re-diaper her and plant a kiss on the soft little forehead. She grins, gurgles, and reaches up to tug at my bed-head with great energy. I wince, and carefully pry her little fingers free.

"You've got Mommy's arm, I guess," I smile, scooping her up. "Now, why don't you come in with Mommy and Daddy, while Mommy talks to God, okay?"

Emily seems perfectly agreeable so I carry her back down the hallway, and onto the bed. I am careful to bolster her well with pillows and blankets, and she props herself up unsteadily on her elbows to watch as I settle back down against the headboard.

"Want to now what Paul wrote in his letters?" I wonder, and she beams in delight, as if she understood perfectly, and couldn't imagine any way more delightful to spend her morning than by catching up on Paul's correspondence with the church in Rome.

"Well," I begin, "the first thing he tells us is that we can't work our way to Heaven. Deeds are nil. It's all about faith. You following me so far, Sweetie? Good. Next we find out that . . ."

As I go on, Emily watches my face intently, and Mike slumbers peacefully. I've worked my way through the first six chapters and am just wrapping up the seventh when my sleeping spouse finally stirs. Man, he looks good . . .

"Good morning, Sweetheart." I lean over and kiss him. "Sleep well?"

"Mm-hm," he stretches, nodding. "You?"

"Did I ever. And we have a long weekend, too- this just couldn't get any better."

"You think?" he wonders, and I smile.

"Well, I'm pretty sure. But it's early yet. Want to have breakfast?"

He agrees that this seems like a good idea, so he shoulders Emily and we head downstairs. What a sight greets our eyes.

Donovan is sitting in the corner by the door, offering an aloof-yet-accusatory glare, directed at our newest acquisition, who is settled peacefully down on what remains of the hallway rug with what's left of the toaster clutched between his front paws, his ample jowls blanketing it comfortably. Various other appliances in a equally varying states of identifiability are strewn around him, along with a couple stripped plants and the tattered remains of several books that Archie had better be praying weren't once my first American edition Shakespeare collection.

I blanch, then feel the blood rush to my face. Michael only just catches me about the throat before I go flying off the stairs to throttle the beast, and, with difficulty, wrestles me into the kitchen while the dogs watch with interest, and Francie wisely remains hidden.

"I'll kill him!" I gasp. "I know I will! Just let me at him, and I promise you there will be nothing left but some teeth, the tail and maybe a clump or two of fur. I will so thoroughly destroy him, he won't even _look_ like a-"

"Sydney," Mike cuts in gently. "maybe you should calm down a bit first, before you-"

"No! No, I don't _want_ to calm, down! I want to choke that dog until there isn't a breath left in him, and then I want to _hurt_ him! _Severely_!"

"I understand your frustration, Sydney, and of course he will have to be dealt with, but don't you think-"

"No! No, I don't! And whatever it is, I don't want to think it! I want to bury him six feet under, and use him to fertilize my roses! Any other plan of action is just _not going to happen_!"

Mike sets Emily down on the floor so he can place both of his hands on my shoulders and make me face him.

"Sydney," he says, "please, just take a couple breaths. I know you're upset-"

"-upset doesn't even _begin_ to cover it, buddy boy-"

"-but please, just think it through, okay? It's his first night in a strange house, and he doesn't know the rules."

"What rules? Mike, there are no rules, remember?! It just so happens that Donovan, poorly trained as he is, manages to stop just short of demolishing everything that isn't nailed down. Archie obviously doesn't!"

"I appreciate that, Sydney, and of course we'll have to do something about it, but-"

"I already told you what we'll be doing! Now let me go, so I can destroy that mangy- hey, wait a second," I hold up my hand to still my own voice. "Where's Emily?"

We spin around, searching the pristine (well, clean, anyway) kitchen floor as if she might suddenly materialize.

She doesn't, but we fortunately smarten up long enough to look down the hallway, where an even more amazing sight meets our eyes.

Emily has propped herself up next to Archie and the toaster, which Archie has left off chewing on in favour of introducing himself to this little creature. His idea, it seems, of a proper introduction is a good, thorough bath, which is exactly what Emily is getting. We watch, amazed, as he washes her from head to toe, soaking her easily and making her giggle.

She puts out two little hands and pats his velvety muzzle, and I see his long, whippy tail beat an enthusiastic tattoo on the hardwood floors.

Mike, to his credit, really tries not to sound overly smug as he speaks.

"You were saying, dear?"

I swat him, frowning.

"How do you want your eggs?"

***

After breakfast I give Emily a proper bath, and Mike suggests we call Mom and Dad to see if the apartment will really be ready, but I shake my head.

"No, don't bother. If it isn't, they'll call us. Otherwise, they'd be offended. Or at least, Mom would. But I have a sneaking suspicion it will be ready."

"But you said it looked like a disaster!"

"I did. It may still. But I know my mother, and I really do think I will be ready."

He eyes me dubiously, but gives me the benefit of a doubt, passing me a towel to wrap Emily in as I remove her from the infant tub she is fast outgrowing.

"Who's a lovely girl, mm?" I coo, and she gurgles, patting my cheeks.

"She'll be talking any day now," Mike observes, smoothing her wispy hair down with one hand. "Do you want her to say Mama first, or Da-da?"

"I don't care," I reply truthfully. "I really don't.

"Good." He leans in. "Say Da-da, Sweetie. Say Da-da!"

She giggles, but doesn't oblige. I roll my eyes.

"Mike, when I said I didn't care, I didn't know you wee going to try to even the odds a bit. She'll say whichever she likes whenever she likes."

"Not if your mother keeps trying to get her to say Grandma, she won't. She'll know them by name before she even knows us!"

"Mike, if Emily were able to wrap her tongue around the consonants necessary to say 'Grandma' then she would be addressing us by now. I wouldn't worry about it too much if I were you."

Mike appears dubious, but lets it go at that. Once Emily is dry I carry her into the nursery, and bravely let her father choose her outfit. He actually is getting much better at it, and not only is the yellow jumpsuit adorable, but when combined with the white sweater and bonnet Louise made for her, it's warm enough for the chilly day that greets us as we head outside to rake the leaves littering our lawn.

"Here, sweetie," I coo, as Archie and Donovan chase each other through the leaves, "you wait here all right?" I place her in the playpen, not really giving her much choice but to comply.

Then I join Mike, and we start on opposite sides of the lawn, making tidy piles of leaves that are continually scattered by the dogs until we finally banish them to the back yard to wait for us there.

Once they're out of the way things move along much more quickly, and it's not until we've almost met in the middle that I realise how exhausted I am.

"Ugh," I grunt, flopping down in the newest pile. "Whew, that's hard going."

Mike glances up, sees me off my feet, and comes over to see what's going on.

"Syd? You okay?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine. I'm just winded."

"Winded?" he blinks, and looks at the work I've completed, then back to me.

"Syd, if you still aren't feeling well, you can tell me. It would be stupid to push things- why don't you go back inside with Emily and rest up? I'll finish out here."

"What do you mean?" I frown. "I'm feeling fine."

"Sydney," he says gently, "look at how much work you've done. There's nothing shameful about that. Now, just go inside, and-"

"Mike, I am honestly not sick! Do you mean to tell me that after all of that, you aren't tired?"

"No," Mike admits, flushing guiltily, "I'm not, really. And Sydney, normally you wouldn't be, either. We usually finish this yard together in no time, and you know it. So why don't you just take Emily, and have a little rest? You'll be yourself again before you know it."

"Mike," I say, my hands trembling, "what's the matter with me? I'm not well, am I? I mean, you said yourself that normally I'd finish this yard."

"And just because you didn't doesn't mean anything."

"Mike, that's bull. It means something. You know it does."

He sighs.

"Even if it did, Sydney - and I don't concede for a second that it does - that wouldn't mean it meant something bad. It's probably just this flu you can't seem to shake."

"And that's another thing," I frown. "You know me. I'm hardly ever sick. Why is it that I'm suddenly sick for a month?"

"Sydney, everybody's bound to catch something sooner or later. It doesn't mean anything."

"Stop saying that!" I shriek. "I does mean something, and you know it as well as I! Now, I want you to stop pretending that nothing is wrong, and acknowledge what I'm saying! I am not crazy, I am not yet hysterical, and I want some answers. Now!"

"Sydney, I don't have them."

"No, but you do have one. Do you honestly believe that this is nothing? That it's just a coincidence I've been so- I don't know - weird lately? You don't, do you?"

Mike looks at me, his expression troubled. At last he sighs, and shakes his head.

"No," he sighs, "I know you too well, Syd. And- no, I don't think it's a coincidence."

"Good," I sigh, flopping back into the leaves. "Now we're getting somewhere."

"No," Mike corrects, dropping the rake and sitting down beside me, "getting somewhere would be if we knew what it was that was causing this."

"Okay," I concede, "I'm open to suggestions. What do you think it could be?"

He looks at me, obviously bothered by the question.

"Syd, I don't want to think about what it could be! I mean, you think about it! All of this worry about Sark, wondering why, if he really is here, he's holding off making his move for so long, and then all of a sudden you start getting sick?" he shakes his head, worried. "It doesn't exactly look good, you know?"

I stare at him, dumbfounded.

"You think- you think he could be poisoning me?"

"I don't know," he says, shifting nervously. "I mean, how could he be? But- in a strange, twisted way it makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, upset stomach, weak and dizzy . . . Don't you think it's a possibility?"

"It is," I agree, my voice very small, "but I don't want it to be."

"Oh, Syd-" he has me in his arms in a second, pressing my face to his jacket as tears gather in my eyes, and spill down my cheeks. "No, of course you don't. But you think that I do? Sweetheart, you just- we have to have faith, all right?"

"I have faith!" I bawled unashamedly. "I have faith, but Michael, I'm terrified all the same! What if he takes us away from each other? What if he does kill me? I'd lose you, and Emily- Michael, I can't even handler thinking about it."

"Then don't," he urges. "You don't have to. You know what we'll do, Syd? We'll call Dr. Stewart right now and schedule blood tests. They'll screen you for any and every kind of toxin, and if you have anything in you that shouldn't be there, they'll let us know, all right? Then we'll know for sure what we're dealing with."

I look up at him, my eyes still streaming.

"All right," I manage. "And- thank-you."

He looks at me, honestly bewildered.

"For what?"

Scared though I am, I do muster up a teeny, tiny smile.

"For being mine."

He smiles.

"There's nobody's I'd rather be than yours," he reassures me. "Now, how does hot chocolate sound to you?"

***

Hot chocolate sounds great, but tastes even better. I hold the steaming cup in my hands as I tuck my feet up under me on the couch, and listen to Mike on the phone.

"Thanks, Helen," he says warmly, "I really appreciate you squeezing her in like that."

Helen is Dr. Stewart's receptionist, and sits on the PTA board at Mike's school.

Sometimes it pays to know people.

He finishes his conversation and comes in to join me, Emily on his hip and Donovan and Archie trotting in his wake, both salivating puddles at the sight of the plate of cookies Mike is holding in his other hand.

"So, I'm in?" I ask, and he nods.

"You're in. Five thirty this evening."

"Five thirty?" I am alarmed. "But we're due at Mum and Dad's by quarter after! How can we possibly explain being at least half an hour late- probably more?"

Mike looks troubled as he sets the cookies down on the coffee table, then quickly snatches them up again as Archie lunges for them with glee.

"We- well, we could try, but realistically? We can't. Sydney- please. I'm begging you. At least- at least consider telling your parents."

I think I may be sick.

"Mike, I can't. I just-"

"Syd, please!" he looks so tortured that I have to duck my head, and look into my hot chocolate, as if I can see something fascinating floating amongst melting marshmallows.

"Please," he says, more quietly this time, "just- just consider it. They have connections, Sydney. They could get you out of here- they could get us all out of here."

"And that is just what I don't want to happen," I say crisply. "So please, Mike- don't ask me to do that. I can't give all of this up- not after we've worked so hard for it."

He looks bothered- so bothered that he forgets to guard the plate of cookies, and Archie Hoovers the contents in one impressive display of suction action. I glare at him, speechless with rage, and Mike hastily intervenes.

"All right, Sydney, I won't. Not for a while, at least."

"Not ever, please, Mike," I frown at him. "Not until I say so, please."

He looks upset, but when he sees I refuse to back down, he nods reluctantly.

"Fine. Not until you say so. Now, let's have some time together, okay?"

I nod, and scoot over to make room for him, but to my surprise he deposits Emily in the vacant spot and hurries out towards the kitchen. Frowning, I call after him,

"Mike? Sweetie, what is it?"

His reply floats back to me.

"Just let me go get some more cookies, okay?"

I have to smile.

***

We really do have too many cookies. I finally have to hide the bag because he keeps going back for more, and I don't want him to spoil his lunch.

He sulks for a minute but recovers, and suggests that I start lunch while he goes out to tackle the back yard leaves. I agree that this seems sensible, and so, Emily watching me with keen interest and the dogs making Mike's every move well nigh impossible, I ponder what best to prepare.

Everything seems like too much work, which is strange, because normally Mike and I fight over who gets to make meals, we enjoy doing it so much. Finally I force myself to dig out some pre-sliced deli meats and sub buns, and slap together a couple sandwiches. Then I call Mike in, and he is happy to oblige, on the condition that dogs remain outdoors.

"They," he says dourly, "can rake the leaves themselves for all I care."

"Now, dear," I console him, setting the sandwich down before him, "you were the one who wanted to take them out in the first place, weren't you?"

Smart, Sydney. Really smart.

He shoots me a nasty look, under which I have the grace to blush as I seat myself, and he growls the blessing over the food.

Then we eat in relative silence, and when we're done, we head silently upstairs to brush our teeth.

Now, I've never really liked sesame seeds. The darn things have a tendency to wedge themselves in between your teeth so they're impossible to reach. That's why I always keep floss handy, and that is why I use it now.

I use floss daily. It's a good habit, you know. You should also know that I'm not looking for a medal for that, or anything- I'm just looking to create some understanding.

Understanding of why I am so floored to see, when I rinse my mouth out, blood running down the drain. Experimentally, I spit into the basin once again.

Yup, it's mine all right.

But- why?

As I said, I floss daily. My gums don't bleed. They never bleed.

But they're bleeding now.

I shiver.

"Mike?" I say, my voice tiny.

His head snaps up, all forgiven in an instant, and sees what I am looking at. His eyes widen.

"Syd . . ."

"Could you please call Mom?" I ask quietly, trying not to let him hear my voice tremble. "I think I need her right now . . ."

***

Mom comes.

Of course she comes- she's my mother.

But even for a mother, she comes pretty darn fast.

She comes flying in the front door without her feet even touching the stairs, and heads straight toward me like a homing pigeon, wrapping her arms around me in a gesture of comfort and protection before I can even manage a greeting. The smell of her fall coat, of her shampoo and the French perfume she wears exclusively, all combine to become such a familiar thing that I start to weep, and she smoothes my hair, crooning softly to me as she does.

"Shh, shh, precious girl. Don't cry. You're safe now. It's all going to be fine, my love. It's all going to be just fine."

I manage a nod into the shoulder of her coat before I burst into tears once more, and she rocks me gently, just as if I was a tiny baby again.

"Shh, my darling, it's all right now. It's all right now."

Her voice is deep, rich, and crooning, and at last my sobs abate to little sniffles, and I can step back.

"Thanks for coming," I whisper, and she nods, smiling, as she reaches out to touch my cheek with her fingertips.

"What else would I do?" she wonders, a tiny smile tracing her lips. "You're my daughter. Of course I came. Now, why don't we go in and sit down, where we'll be comfortable? Then you can explain the whole thing to me."

It's one of the most difficult things I have ever done in my life. It's made that much harder by knowing, in my heart, that I should have done this ages ago, but because of my stubborn pride, and my desire to believe I could handle it all on my own, I put it off until it had reached this point.

Mom, though, is Mom. She is incredible, and proves it yet again by hearing me the whole way through my shamefaced, often faltering narrative with only the slightest twitch or two of her lip to betray that she's even heard me at all. When I am finally done, she sits back with a heavy sigh.

"You," she says calmly, "behaved very foolishly, Sydney. You could have gotten all of us killed. But you're a grown woman, and I am sure you realise that by now. It now only remains to ascertain two things- one, that this is really Sark you have seen, and two, whether or not he has been poisoning you."

I nod.

"And of course," she goes on, "if it _is_ Sark, we will have to tell your father."

I tense, and, seeing, she smiles.

"But," she goes on gently, "until we are certain, then I really don't see the need."

I flash her a grateful smile, and she smiles back.

"Now," she says gently, "when is this doctor's appointment?"

***

Mom accompanies me. She calls Dad and tells him that she had some last-minute errands to run, and that Mike and I are dropping Emily off for him to watch while we help her with it.

He may be slightly suspicious, but he accepts it as the truth - and in a way it is. Mom would never outright lie to Dad - and says he'll be waiting for us there.

I give Emily a hug and a kiss, and I let Mike run her into the apartment, because I know that, in the condition I am now, the second Dad sees my face he'll know something is up.

As we wait, Mom looks at me with a sympathetic twist to her lips, and reaches over to lay her hand on my knee.

"My dear," she says gently, "you mustn't look as if the world is ending. Even if it is poison - and I am not saying that it is or isn't - there is bound to be an antidote somewhere."

"It's the somewhere," I shudder, "that bothers me."

She smiles.

"What, you? You, who only a few short years ago, skipped happily all over Creation in search of viruses, antidotes, and any number of other things? I can't believe that, Sydney Anne, I really cannot."

I have to smile back, and then swipe quickly at a lingering tear.

"Yeah, I guess it is pretty silly, isn't it? But then, Sark would know that this would be the easiest way to revenge himself on me- I mean, just sitting here, knowing it's a possibility that Emily could- could grow up with out me . . ." I start to tremble, and Mom quickly tightens her grip on my knee.

"No, Darling. Don't even think that for a moment. We will make this better, Sydney. I give you my word we will not stop trying until this is made better."

I nod, hiccup, and manage to stop my tears just as Mike emerges and rejoins us.

"He might have been a little suspicious," he admits, "but that's just who he is, after all. And I think that I managed to convince him everything was all right."

"And how, pray tell," Mom arches an eyebrow, "did you manage that?"

Mike grins sheepishly.

"I may have dropped a few hints that we were planning on doing a bit of early Christmas shopping. He was a little surprised, but he seemed to buy it."

Mom rolls her eyes and I have to laugh a bit as he pulls away from the curb, and steers us in the direction of the hospital.

The doctors' practices are located in the low brick building across the hospital parking lot, and as Dr. Stewart is not on call, it is to this building that we go for my blood tests. The whole building is decorated for Thanksgiving, but I can't even concentrate on that. Mom sees my hands shaking, and she lays one of her own on top of them as we walk across the sunlit foyer to Dr. Stewart's corner, and see if anybody is there.

Helen is already waiting for us, genuine concern on her pretty face as she ushers me into a room, and looks mildly surprised as the whole family, as it were, follows me.

"Reminds me," she giggles, "of when you came for your pre-natal checkups, Syd. Your father was glued to one side of you, and Mike was all but surgically attached to the other. There was hardly any room for a person to move around in here!"

"Would you rather we leave?" Mom asks, but there is a certain note to her tone that says she is only asking because she ought to, not because she has any intention of complying should Helen actually ask her to.

Helen, bless her, never even considers it for a moment.

"Don't be silly, Mrs. Bristow!" she chides, smiling. "The more the merrier! Now, Sydney, you just lie back and get comfy. Dr. Stewart will be with you any moment."

I thank her, and to my amusement, both Mom and Mike are right there, hand on my shoulders, to help ease me back onto the scratchy paper that covers the leather "bed".

"I'm fine, really," I tell them. "I'm just a little- nervous."

"Well, don't be," Mom advises me gently. "That will only make it worse. If there's anything to be nervous about, we'll get nervous when they find it. Until then- what do you want for Christmas?"

I don't, actually, come up with anything, but it's something to think about while we wait for Dr. Stewart to arrive. When she does she is all smiles, and bustles over to greet all three of us effusively.

"Mike, how's that arm? No more street hockey for you without proper padding- you're getting up there, whether you want to admit it or not! Laura, dear, since the last time we talked I've been looking around, and I found some material for you, if you're interested. And Sydney, what's this about wanting a blood test? Nothing wrong, I hope?"

I exchange glances with Mike, and he tightens his grip on my hand before he answers for me.

"We aren't exactly sure, Carla. If you could just humour us, and screen for - everything - then we'd really appreciate it."

"Of course," Dr. Stewart says, concern flitting briefly across her eyes before it vanishes. "Normally, I would send you over to the main building have it drawn, but if you like, I'll take it myself right now."

"If you would," Mom nods, "that would be wonderful of you."

So Dr. Stewart preps the needle, and I try not to look as it slides into my arm. I hate that horrible pinch feeling- the feeling of a steely, cold, foreign object piercing my flesh has just never sat too well with me.

I'm a little woozy when she's done, but not from lack of blood. Mike helps me slide my head between my knees, and I shudder, trying not to laugh at the irony of the situation.

"Tough secret agent, eh?" I giggle. "Tooth pulled with no anesthetic, millions of bumps, bruises and hairline fractures without so much as a peep, and here I am, getting dizzy at a little needle. Lovely."

"I don't like them, either," Mom reassures me. "Do you know, when I delivered you, I would not hear of an epidural. I nearly broke your poor father's hand, but I simply would not let them near me with that needle. In the end," she muses, her eyes twinkling, "it was your father who got the Novocaine, not I."

This I can picture, and I have to laugh as Mike helps me into an upright position once more.

"Oh, Carla," Mom says quickly, "how soon can we expect results?"

Dr. Stewart takes in the frazzled three of us, and her face twists in sympathy.

"You'll have them tomorrow morning at the very latest," she says quietly. "I know people. I can get it bumped up."

Normally I would have protested, but I am so scared right now, all I can do is nod my gratitude.

"Thank you," I sigh. "Thank you so much."

She nods, smiles, and slips out the door, leaving the three of us to hug each other for support. Not surprisingly, it is Mom who gets me up off the table, and straightens out the collar of my sweater.

"Well," she says a little huskily, "I suppose your father will be wondering what's happened to us, so why don't we go join him? We'll know soon enough what this is all about."

And even though none of us say it, as we leave the doctor's office and get into the car to drive to Mom and Dad's, I know that we're all thinking it.

Soon enough can't come soon enough for me.

***

***

I've been reading some interesting speculations as to why Syd was acting the way she was, and they intrigued me to no end. This, though, was one angle that I was surprised didn't come up - most likely nobody thinks as strangely as I do - so I thought I'd toss it out there, and see what kind of a reaction it got.

Well? React, already! I need reviews!


	8. Chapter Seven

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Thanks for your reviews, and if I've really confused that many of you, then I did my job well! Do you now, at the time I honestly did not know which problem it would be, or if it would even be anything at all. Now I do, and it's all here, so read away, and see if you were right or wrong- even if you hadn't a clue, read it anyway!

Oh, and you know what would really make writing all of this seem worthwhile? Do you? You do, don't you. I know you do. Yes, reviews would be just delicious!

This chapter, too, is dedicated- it's for Katie. Sweetie, you were just the kick I needed. You might not have even known it, but you were, and I thank you, and God, for that. This one's for you- I hope you like it.

***

*** 

"Well," she says a little huskily, "I suppose your father will be wondering what's happened to us, so why don't we go join him? We'll know soon enough what this is all about."

And even though none of us say it, as we leave the doctor's office and get into the car to drive to Mom and Dad's, I know that we're all thinking it.

Soon enough can't come soon enough for me.

***

I think, at first, that there is no way I will be able to fool Dad into thinking everything is all right. The man is my father- he knows me far too well.

But on the way to the apartment Mom tells a few ridiculous jokes, reminisces about Thanksgivings past, and soon has me relaxed enough to walk in as if nothing as wrong- which is probably why she did it to begin with.

When we do get inside, though, I could very well be dying and it is still very unlikely that I would even remember my name, much less my predicament. I am dumbstruck at the change- from the disaster area of the day before has sprung- well- a wonderland.

Silky hardwood, as usual, runs throughout. The floors have been buffed and polished to further enhance their blonde sheen, and the walls have been lightened by several shades. The living room I see directly ahead is now made bright and welcoming by the addition of the creamy suede sofa, a few pale throw pillows and white drapes drawn back to let the pale autumn sun filter in. It looks, somehow, like an entirely different apartment.

The whole place smells also like pumpkin and spices, and I am still gaping when Mom somewhat smugly offers to take my coat.

"Doesn't look half bad, does it?" she can't resist adding, and all I can do is nod, speechless.

"Uh-huh . . ."

She laughs.

"Did you think it would be done?" she wonders. "You didn't, did you? Oh, don't feel badly," she reassures me, as I am about to protest, "Neither did you father, really."

Dad's voice floats out from the kitchen.

"Now, Laura, I never said-"

"But you thought it," she accuses, still beaming. "I know you did. And I don't mind, dear- I wondered myself, from time to time, if it would be done on time, but the boys really came through, didn't they? Remind me, Sydney," she adds, "to show you the closets later on. They're just lovely."

I smile, and shrug out of my coat to pass it to her.

"I'll bet they are," I decide, as Dad hurries in from the kitchen, Emily positioned over his shoulder.

"She wondered where you were," he says, and I wonder if Emily was the only one who wondered, but play along anyway.

"She did?" I croon, reaching out to take her. "Oh, well, sweetie, Mommy and Daddy are right here now. Were you good for Grandpa, or did you give him a little grief, hmm?"

Emily laughs, gurgles, and pats my cheek.

"She was great," Dad smiles. "But then, is she ever not?"

I agree that there are very few times we think otherwise, and press my cheek up to hers.

"Are you hungry, love?" I wonder. "Mommy brought your bottles, precious, and- what?"

Mom is making odd little faces at me, causing me to stop talking.

"Can I have your help in the kitchen for a sec?" she asks, laying her hand on my shoulder.

She gives Dad and Mike a gracious, apologetic smile.

"Girl talk. You understand, don't you, boys?"

It would be rude to deny that they do, and a lie to pretend that they did, but they opt for polite deceit, and nod, heading into the living room as Mom tugs me into the kitchen.

"What is it?" I ask, frowning, and she looks at me with evident concern.

"Sydney, you can't feed her. Not with that milk, anyway."

"Why not? It's mine."

"My point, darling." She looks tenderly down at Emily, and smoothes out the wispy excuse for hair she is sporting before returning her gaze to me.

"It's yours. And you think - in fact there is a distinct possibility - that you are being poisoned."

It takes a minute for this to register, but when it does, I am only able to thrust Emily at Mom as my knees buckle, and I reach out to grope for the countertop.

"Mom . . ." I gasp, as the room starts to spin, and my stomach lurches. She settles Emily on the floor before rushing me to the sink, bending me over it just in time.

I am violently, explosively sick, and when I have finally emptied my stomach, Mom is rubbing my back and holding a glass of water at ready.

"My dear, if there had been any other way to phrase it . . ." she trails off helplessly, and as I accept the water, I reassure her that any other words in any other combination would have had much the same effect on me.

"I- I just- you think it's possible? You think that I could have- that I could be- poisoning my daughter?"

The very thought is so repulsive that I feel my stomach lurch again. Before I can be sick, though, Mom grips my shoulders firmly, forcing me to look at her.

"Sydney, I don't think anything at the moment. I don't even dare to. All I know is that, until we are certain, we must be cautious. I have milk - regular milk - in the fridge, and although I know very well that it is far from ideal, we'll make due with it tonight until you can buy her some formula tomorrow."

"She hates formula," I say distantly, and Mom smiles.

"So did you," she recalls, a wistful little smile tugging at her lips. "You threw up every time I tried to switch you, so I just breast-fed until we moved you to solids."

I smile back, and then look down at Emily, who is sitting upright and studying a crumb she has picked up off the otherwise spotless kitchen floor - Mom's housekeeping skills put mine to shame - and I feel my heart break.

"She has to be all right," I whisper, and feel tears welling up in my eyes, "she just has to be, Mom. She's everything we have. If I am- if I do-"

I can't even say it, so Mom just nods for me to go on.

"If- this is the case," I struggle to form the words, "and I don't- make it . . . She's all Mike will have left. There can't be anything wrong, Mom. You don't see how much- how badly I mean this- there cannot be _anything_ wrong."

Mom nods, pulling me close to her and hugging me.

"I know it, Sydney. I really do. Now, worrying isn't going to do any good. All we can do is wait for Carla to come through for us, and give us the results of the tests. Then, if it _is_ poison, we'll deal with that when we come to it."

I nod, smiling weakly.

"You're right," I sigh, swiping at an escaping tear, "I can't do anything about it now."

I bend to scoop Emily up into my arms, and rub my cheek against her own. She is soft, and warm, and smells clean and milky, with a hint of baby powder. The thought that I might one day soon not be able to smell that unique baby scent is almost more than I can bear. Before I can break down, though, Mom takes charge with gentle resolve.

"Come on, Sweetheart," she says, putting a strong hand on my arm, "or Dad will start to wonder what's happening."

So, my child in my arms and my mother at my side, I walk into the living room to join the rest of my family.

***

"There you are!" Mike smiles up at me, and slides over to make room on the loveseat, which I gratefully make the most of. "Jack and I were just talking about Christmas plans. We were thinking maybe lunch, then gifts at our house, and a really light supper as well."

"That sounds wonderful," I smile, snuggling up against him, nestling Emily down between us. "Oh, and that reminds me- we'll have to start shopping pretty soon."

"Shopping?" Dad looks bewildered. "But it's only October."

Mom and I exchange martyred glances.

"It never fails . . ." she sighs, and I giggle.

"No," I agree, "it never does. Now, do you need help with dinner, Mom?"

"If you would, sweetie, I'd appreciate it . . ."

***

Lunch is delicious, and even more so is the time we get to spend together. Dad is more relaxed than I've seen him in ages, his fingers threaded through Mom's for most of the meal. They make eyes at each other over every course until Mike and I are teasing them mercilessly out loud, and privately praying that we will still be that close so many years later.

Mom outdid herself on the meal, even for Mom. Every dish is better than the last, and we don't even realise how much we've been eating until, as Mom and I get up to clear the last dish away, I become acutely aware of everything that has settled in my stomach since the meal began.

"Umph," I mumble, laying a hand on my belly. "Wow- I think that was something close to gluttony."

Mom heartily negates this as we make our way to the kitchen once more, leaving Mike and Dad to change Emily and predict when she is most likely to start talking, standing, walking, driving, etc.

"It would be gluttony," she decides, "if you knew how full you were and still kept on eating. As it is, I simply take it as testament to my cooking skills that you didn't even realise how much you ate until you had already eaten it."

I decide I can live with this conclusion, and as she fills the sink full of hot water and soapsuds I rinse off the plates, glassware and cutlery before depositing them all in the dishwasher.

"Imagine," Mom marvels, watching as I close the dishwasher and set the buttons, "how long this must have taken before there were dishwashers- before there was running water!"

I wince.

"I don't even care to think about that," I decide, and she laughs.

"No, of course not. You don't have to- you don't even," she adds, with a martyred sigh, "have to help with the pots, if you don't want to. I can do them myself. You go join your husband and your daughter and father, and leave me here to-"

"Mom!" I interrupt, laughing. "Mom, I never said I wasn't going to help you! Now, pass me that dish towel, and we'll get these done in no time."

She smiles innocently at me as she passes the towel over.

"Just making sure, is all, sweetheart. Just making sure . . ."

***

After the dishes are finally done, we return to the living room yet again. This time, Mike is on the floor and Dad is leaning forward in his chair. The object of their attentions is Emily, who is incredibly focused on the coffee table she is hanging on to.

"Come on, Sweetheart, you can do it," Mike coaches her. "I know you can. Just pull a little harder . . ."

"What's going on here?" Mom sounds amused, and she looks it, too, when it becomes apparent that neither man will be able to remove his eyes from my daughter to answer her.

"We're trying to get her to pull herself up," Dad says at last. I look at him, surprised.

"Why?"

"She's old enough."

Mom and I exchange truly bewildered glances.

"What do you mean, she's old enough?"

"I mean that she's at the age when most babies start to pull themselves up."

I love my father and my husband very dearly, and I cherish my relationships with them, so I find that I have to consider my response very carefully before I make it.

"Dad, even if that is true, that doesn't mean she's ready to do it herself. All babies develop at different rates- Emily, for example, held her head up almost abnormally early, but, on the other end of the s she's not yet begun to really try to communicate. They're all different, and I doubt that she-"

I break off, then, because it would be silly to keep going in that vein now that my daughter has begun to painstakingly elevate herself to two unsteady legs.

Just like that.

She holds herself in place for a few wobbly seconds, looking rather uncertain, before her knees give out and she flops back to land on her diapered bottom with a soft thump.

I gape, speechless, and she frowns in great concentration, as if she were displeased with the outcome of her efforts.

She reaches out, grabs a hold of the coffee table again, and raises herself to her feet once more, this time considerably faster and for a considerably longer period of time before, looking most satisfied, she flops back to the ground once more.

I shake my head in disbelief.

"But then," I say, "what do I know, anyway?"

It's a sort of release for us all, and all at once we flock forward to surround her, praising, congratulating and exclaiming over her brilliance. She is looking very self satisfied by the time we are finally able to pull back and beam smugly at each other.

"We," Dad decides, "have the cleverest baby in the world."

I don't dispute the joint ownership with him, since he and Mom between them have had a hand in raising Emily since the day she was born. Instead, I smile, and nod.

"We do," I say, cuddling her on my lap and kissing the silky curls that decorate her head, "we really, really do."

"Anybody want some cider?" Mom asks, looking rather flushed and pleased. "I think this calls for a toast."

We toast Emily with cider, and gather around her on the floor as we drink it, waiting to see if she'll do it again. She doesn't disappoint us, managing to haul herself to her feet eight more times before we finally realise how late it has gotten, and Mike and I most reluctantly say we'll have to head home, if we want to get her to bed on time.

They walk us to the door, and as Dad is saying good bye to Mike, I bend over to bundle Emily up, and Mom, leaning down to help me, murmurs,

"You'll call, sweetheart? Please promise me that you'll call the very second you hear."

I nod reassuringly.

"Of course I will, Mom."

She must see condescension in my tone somewhere, because her eyes take on an earnest, worried look as she entreats me further.

"No, Sydney, I really mean it. Whatever time it is, I don't care- I really have to know."

My face softens and I reach out to touch her arm.

"I will call you." I say firmly. "You can believe me."

She nods, breathes a little sigh of relief, and hugs me tightly to her.

"I'm so thankful," she whispers, "to have you. You can't possibly have any idea- it's such an incredible blessing for me, to be able to be here, with you and your father and Michael, and to get the chance to watch you raise your daughter. God has been so good me, and I have no idea why."

I smile, fighting tears, and bite my lip.

"Because He loves you, Mom," I say simply. "Surely you must know that by now."

Then Dad comes over to envelop me in a bear hug, and Mike wraps Mom in his arms as well, so we don't get another chance to really speak with each other before Mike and I cart Emily and her baby seat out the door of the apartment, promising as we leave that we will see them the very next morning in church.

"And don't be late," Mom cautions. "Kimberlea is singing for the opening tomorrow, and I promised her parents we'd be the first to tell her how wonderful she sounded."

We assure them that we will not be late, and then make it out the door. Michael carries Emily's seat for me, and I don't protest. She's been getting strangely heavy as of late, and difficult for me to carry. I ran out of breath just pushing her stroller up Walker Road the other day, though of course I hadn't told Mike.

"She's going to be asleep in no time," Mike predicts, buckling her carefully in to the back seat. "Look at her- she can hardly keep her eyes open as it is."

"No wonder," I shrug. "Her nap got cut short by the doctor's appointment today- I'm surprised she isn't fussing."

"Our baby?" he asks with loyal incredulity, "Not a chance."

I laugh, settling down in my own seat with a weary little sigh, and fastening my belt across my stomach.

"You're biased," I accuse, and he laughs.

"Terribly," he agrees without embarrassment, buckling up his own belt. "But then, she's our baby- if we aren't going to be biased in her favour, then who will?"

"Mom and Dad seem to be doing a pretty thorough job," I remark dryly, watching as he starts the engine, and carefully swings out into the street.

"Yes," he agrees, "they are. They think she's something else. Just like you."

"Just like I think, or just like I am?" I tease, but his answering look is serious.

"Just like you are. Sydney, you and Emily are- you're so, so incredibly special to me. To all three of us. We all love you both so, so much- and now that this- this thing is hanging over our heads, I . . ." he breaks off, shaking his head, and presses one hand to his face quickly, as if to force back tears.

Calmly, I reach out, take hold of the steering wheel, and help him pull over to the side. Then I shift it into park, and let the engine idle as I draw him to me, and hold him tight as he cries on my shoulder.

"I just don't want to lose you," she says in between muffled sobs, and I feel my own eyes fill up, but with an effort force the tears back.

"You won't," I soothe him, rocking slightly, the same way he does whenever I am crying, "you won't. Not really. Not ever. No matter what happiness, Mike, you won't lose me. You can't," I add with a trace of humour, "get rid of me that easily, you know."

He half-laughs, half-sobs, and I bite my lip hard to keep from breaking down as well.

"I love you," I soothe him, and he nods.

"I love you, too."

"Do you want me to drive?"

He shakes his head, and composes himself with a valiant effort.

"No, that's- that's fine. Let's just get home, all right? I need to just be with you two right now."

I nod.

I understand.

I need that, too.

***

"Tea, sweetheart?" he wonders, and I nod, hugging my knees to myself as I watch the fire crackle in the fireplace, bathing the otherwise dark room in a warm glow.

__

Father, I begin hesitantly in my mind, _Father, I'm so scared, I . . ._

I can't get any further coherently, but break down, my face twisting.

__

I'm so scared! my mind wails, _I'm just so scared! Father, I can't do this alone! I need You! You alone know what's to be done, and I know that. Only sometimes, I just want so badly . . ._

I can't even continue incoherently in my mind now, but rather burst into audible tears, sobbing loudly. Mike comes running in, tea bags in hand, and gathers me up in his arms.

"Shh," it is his turn to soothe, and he does so with the ease of a man who is both a father and a husband, and who has been soothing his wife and daughter for almost half a decade. "Shh, love, it will be fine. We just need to trust God- we know He would never do anything that isn't for the best."

"It's so easy," I whimper, "to say that when you're standing strong and healthy, but when you think- when it's possible-"

I shake my head, and feel the tears rise up again. Mike tightens his grip on me.

"Let's pray, Love," he invites tenderly, and since all I can do is cry and nod, that's what I do.

He smoothes my hair, and begins, his voice trembling at first, but growing calmer and more confident as he talks with a father, creator and friend.

"I love my wife, Lord," he begins quite humbly. "You know that better than anyone, because I thank You for her every day. I love her more than anything else you have given me, except, perhaps, the daughter you let us make with You. I can't even begin to imagine a life without her, Father - without either of them - and I pray - I pray more than anything - that it is Your will she be just fine." His voice cracks. "Just fine."

I entwine my fingers in his shirt as he goes on.

"But if-" he swallows, "if it is Your will that she- that this . . ." he shakes his head, and seems to go on the faith that God will know what he means, as he is unable to speak the words out loud.

"If it is Your will, then let us- give us Your strength to accept it. Otherwise, Father, it's just going to kill me. We need Your peace, Father, and we need it now, or we won't be able to go on. I thank you so much for my wife, Lord- she's the most wonderful gift I've ever received. In Your Son's name, Father, Amen."

As he prays, his voice calm and clear in the warmth of the room, I draw strength from the words and the growing confidence with which he speaks them. When at last he is done I am almost asleep in his arms, until he tightens his grip on me ever so slightly.

"If God wants to take you," he says calmly, "who am I to fight Him for you? But I don't think, Sydney, that He wants you right now. I just- just a feeling."

I smile, and snuggle a bit closer.

"I like that feeling," I sigh. "That feeling is just fine with me."

***

When we get into bed, I find it hard to settle. I toss and turn, kick, fidget and tug at the covers until Mike wonders if I'd like some sort of sedative.

I have to laugh, and swat him, before I shake my head in the darkness of our bedroom.

"I just- I think I need some water, or something."

"Do you want me to-"

"No, it's fine. I can get it."

I slide out of bed, and shiver at the slight chill of the room before finding my slippers in the dark and padding across the floor to the open doorway. The hall is slightly warmer, and I manage not to shiver as I use the moonlight filtered in from outside to find my way to the stairs, and, gripping the banister, make my way downstairs.

The kitchen is even warmer still, and I feel my shoulders loosen as I pour water from the jug in the fridge, then seat myself at the table and study the drink with detached interest.

Water.

Cold, wet, and thirst-quenching, but . . .

I am suddenly not thirsty.

I sip it anyway, just for the sake of having something to do, and think about how far my whole life has come in the past little while. I've come from being a frustrated, revenge-minded young woman with shaky and/or forbidden relationships to being a peaceful, loving mother and wife with a forgiving God, parents who adore her, a daughter she dotes on and a husband who has made her happier than she ever dreamed of being.

I shake my head in mild awe.

I know, now, the awe Mom felt when she said God had been so good to her- if you had asked me five years ago if I thought it was possible, I may have laughed right in your face. But now . . .

People change.

Slowly, sometimes, and quickly at others, but they do inevitably change - it's the nature of the beast - and I have.

I love, too, who I have become over the years I have been Sydney Vaughn. I feel so much better being her than I did being who I used to be- it's not so much a perfect or even completely peaceful existence as it is a real one, and, ultimately, a better one. I feel human for the first time in decades, and the thought that, yet again, some psycho from my past might try to destroy what I've worked so hard to build is almost intolerable.

Before I can break down yet again, though, little murmurs coming from over the intercom extension in the living room alert me to my daughter's presence in the room upstairs- her apparently wakeful presence.

Water in hand, I make my way back upstairs and go to the nursery, where I find Emily lying wide awake, perfectly content, in her crib.

When she sees me, even in the dim blue light that washes over everything through the open blinds on her window her face lights up, and she stretches her arms up to me pleadingly.

I laugh, and, setting my cup down, scoop her up into my arms, cuddling her close under my chin.

"Oh, my lovely girl," I sigh, feeling her settle down against my breastbone and slip a thumb into her mouth, "Mommy does think you're just about the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to her, do you know that?"

If she doesn't know that, then she's probably severely developmentally delayed- surely even a rock, or something, could see that. Even Donovan and Archie, sitting in the doorway and regarding me with resignation and dumb bewilderment, respectively, seem to know that something special is going on here.

Humming softly, I carry her over to the window, and show her the bare branches of the tree just beyond our reach.

"Soon," I explain, "it will all be covered in snow. You probably don't remember snow very well- you were just born, and it started melting a few months after. But I think you'll like snow, Emily- it's a wonderful way to feel you're getting messy without getting very messy at all. Very fun for you, and easier on Mommy and Daddy than mud or sand."

Emily watches the branches dance, her eyes wide, and makes no comment.

"Then," I go on dreamily, as Archie and Donovan continue to watch the scene, making no attempt to intrude, "Mommy and Daddy can bundle you up and tuck you into a sled, and we'll take you for lovely, long walks all over Sackville. You'll enjoy them so much, sweetheart- it's always so lovely and quiet when it's just snowed, and everything is covered in it- as if you're wrapped up in a thick, white blanket, and nobody outside can see, touch or hear you, and you can't see, touch, or hear them, either. And," I add, "it's so beautiful inside that you don't even care."

Emily nestles down against me with a little sigh, as if, even though she doesn't understand the majority - or even any - of my words, she's just glad to hear me speaking them.

Once I've ascertained that the world isn't planning on changing its appearance anytime soon, I carry her over to the rocking chair, settle myself in it, and do what comes naturally when you're sitting in a rocking chair.

I'm still sitting there, rocking her gently, when the phone shrills through the house, nearly giving me a mild heart attack and waking Emily up all over again.

She begins to cry, and I wince as I bounce her gently, heading into the hallway to locate a phone.

Before I can, it stops ringing, and I hear my husband's sleepy query.

"Who's this?"

He pauses, listening.

"Yeah, it is, but who's this?"

Another pause, and then,

"I think so, yeah. Just a second . . ."

He appears in the doorway to our room, sleep-tousled and rather grumpy looking.

"Syd? Phone for you."

I blink.

"Michael, what time is it?"

"I thought," he grunted, "it was better that I not know."

Nodding, I move to take the receiver, and pass Emily to him.

"Will you see if you can get her settled?" I wonder, and he nods reassuringly.

"Sure. And if you think that you could possibly convince that person on the other end of the line not to phone here again until it's daylight, I'd appreciate that."

I nod, smiling, and promise to do what I can. Then I watch as he paces the length of the hallway, mumbling to a still-wailing Emily in an effort to quiet her cries.

"Hello?" I speak into the phone, but can barely hear my own initiating comment, let alone the response it garners, over my daughter's tearful wails, so I mumble an excuse, cover the receiver with my hand, and turn to Michael.

"Sweetheart, do you think that you might possibly be able to take her downstairs, or something? I can hardly hear myself think, let alone this person speak."

He nods, and once he's disappeared downstairs, and Emily's voice is considerably muffled, I turn my attention back to the communications device I am holding.

"I'm sorry," I manage, "but I just couldn't hear you. Now, who is this, and what is this in regards to?"

"It's Carla, Sydney," she says, and so stupefied am I that it takes me a minute to even remember that I know Carla, much less recall the significance I have so recently attached to her name.

"Oh- oh! Hello. I- hello."

"Hello," she laughs. "I should apologise for phoning you at such a ridiculous hour. It's really-"

"No, no, don't. I wanted you to. That is, I want you to. I mean- I'm glad you did."

I take a deep breath to calm myself, then start over.

"Sorry. Thank you."

"Not at all," she says warmly. "I was actually impressed it got done this fast- they put you right to the head of the line when I asked them to. They're really quite wonderful up there. Anyway, I have the results right here in front of me."

I clench the phone tightly, and feel my heart slow.

"And?" I prod.

"And you were right to come in."

That could mean almost anything, but none of those anythings mean I'm normal.

"What- what do you mean?" I ask, unsteadily.

"Was there- is there anything- you found something, then?"

__

Oh please, Father, no . . .

"Yes," she says gently, "I did find something."

I feel my stomach lurch, but with an effort I force it back down.

"What did you find?" I ask, and, with a beating heart, I wait for her answer.

***

When I go downstairs, Mike has set Emily in her high chair and is standing in front of the sink, where he wiping off his chest with a dish towel. His chest is wet and glistening, as is the edge of the kitchen table, and I see that there are shattered pieces of china scattered all over a wet floor.

"I wish you'd warned me you started storing the coffee cups upside down," he complains, then turns around to look at me, and sees my face.

"Syd, what is it?"

"It- is was Carla."

"Yes, I know. What did she say? Did she get the tests in?"

"Yes, she- she said they rushed."

"Well, good."

He pauses.

"Isn't it?"

"I- yes, yes it's very good."

I bite my lip.

How to tell him? I wonder. How to tell him?

"Sydney," he prods gently, "what did she find out?"

My hesitation nearly drives him over the edge, and he moves to grip my shoulders as he entreats me earnestly.

"Look, Sydney, you really have to tell me what she said- I've been going out of my mind not knowing, just- just _wondering_. You're going to give me a heart attack if you don't tell me- you almost had a heart attack yourself, when you still didn't know what was going on. Now please, just tell me."

"Well," I manage, "I- I can assure you that I'm not having a heart attack, Mike."

He tilts his head, puzzled, and appears even more so when I find that I just can't help but smile as I tell him.

"I'm having a baby."

***

***

Yes, some of you saw it coming, didn't you? I think three saw it coming without help from somebody else, and I congratulate you for that (sorry, PJ, you don't count because I told you it was going to happen beforehand!).

I think I also confused some of you with the poison aspect, but it was something I was honestly considering for a while, rather than have such a slight age difference between Emily and the new baby. If you do the math, though, you will see that there will be a difference of fifteen months, and as my sister and I are only seventeen months apart, I knew that this was quite feasible.

I also used many of my mother's own symptoms for her pregnancies with my sister and myself, one of which was the bleeding gums. I didn't know, Carrie, that it had been caused by vitamin C deficiency- thank you! You learn something new every day!

Now, I would love to hear what you thought of this, so please, leave me a review!


	9. Chapter Eight

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- I'm glad you're all so happy about the impending arrival! I am really looking forward to these next few "months" with the Vaughns/Bristows- they're such fun to right under ordinary circumstances, but with a baby on the way, I'm sure it will be just that much more enjoyable for me to create- and, hopefully, for you to read.

Enjoy, and tell me all about it!

***

*** 

I bite my lip.

How to tell him? I wonder. How to tell him?

"Sydney," he prods gently, "what did she find out?"

My hesitation nearly drives him over the edge, and he moves to grip my shoulders as he entreats me earnestly.

"Look, Sydney, you really have to tell me what she said- I've been going out of my mind not knowing, just- just _wondering_. You're going to give me a heart attack if you don't tell me- you almost had a heart attack yourself, when you still didn't know what was going on. Now please, just tell me."

"Well," I manage, "I- I can assure you that I'm not having a heart attack, Mike."

He tilts his head, puzzled, and appears even more so when I find that I just can't help but smile as I tell him.

"I'm having a baby."

***

"A- a baby."

"Yes." I bite my lip to keep from grinning idiotically.

He looks at me, dazed.

"A- real- you- you're pregnant?"

"Yes, Mike," I laugh, "you should know a little bit about this by now- that's what it means when I say that I'm having a baby. I'm pregnant."

"You-"

He sags against me suddenly, and, laughing, I propel him into a nearby chair.

"Easy, there," I tease him. "It seems like you might almost have handled me being poisoned better."

He looks up at me, stupefied at first, then slowly, as the news takes root, a smile creeps across his face.

"A baby."

"Yes, Mike," I laugh, "a real, live baby."

Then, suddenly, I am up in his arms as he swings me around in the kitchen, nearly knocking Emily's high chair over as he spins me about with a whoop of joy.

"Pregnant! You're- we- we're having a baby!"

He sets me down with a thud, and kisses me fiercely. I giggle, and let him, until my oxygen supply runs out and I have push him away, albeit very reluctantly.

"Yes, we are," I beam. "We're having a baby. Another one," I amend quickly, glancing at Emily.

Mike follows my gaze, and hurries over to scoop her up into his arms.

"Did you hear that, sweetheart?" he wonders. "Mommy's having a baby! You're going to have a new little brother or sister!"

He carries her back over to where I am standing, and kisses me once more, gently, before lowering Emily to belly-level and instructing her, ever so gravely,

"Say hi."

I roll my eyes.

"Mike, she can't even say Mama or Dada yet. I don't think she'll be able to say hi."

Still, Mike kneels down so they are both on eye-level with my stomach, which he kisses gently, and whispers,

"Hey, in there."

I laugh, and reach down to ruffle both fair heads with a sort of giddy exasperation.

"Do you honestly think he- she- whatever- can hear you yet?"

"Why not?" Mike shrugs, then a thought occurs to him. "When did we-?"

I roll my eyes.

"When you forgot to set the alarm," I remind him crisply, and he laughs.

"I'll never set it again, either, if this is the sort of thing that happens," he grins, getting to his feet to slide his free arm protectively around my waist. "This is the best surprise that I could ever have had. We'll have to start calling people as soon as the sun comes up, and telling them that-"

"Calling people!" I suck in my breath, remembering. "Mike, I promised Mum I'd call the second I heard what was . . . wrong."

I flush at the absurdity of the word, now.

"Wrong," I mutter, disbelieving. "I thought something was wrong!"

Shaking my head, I run over to the phone, and dial the number. My hands are trembling, so it takes two tries to get it right, and even once I have it right, it still takes ten and a half rings before Dad answers, his voice thick with sleep.

"Hello?"

Any sane person, at hearing the tone of his voice, would have begged his pardon ever-so nicely, hung up the phone, and gotten out of town as fast as his legs could carry him.

I always tended to take after my father's side of the family, though, so I stay on the line.

"Daddy?" I ask sweetly.

It takes a minute for this title to penetrate.

"Sydney?"

"No, Daddy, your other daughter. Yes, it's me. Is Mom there, please?"

"No, Sydney, she left shortly after midnight to join a traveling polka troupe."

"Oh, well, when do you expect her back?" I return, giggling, and I think if he hadn't been wearing virtually nothing at the time, and it hadn't been so cold outside, I probably would have been receiving a not-too-social visit from him in a matter of minutes. As it is, though, he makes a noise that is something between a sigh and snarl, and says he'll wake her up.

It's some time later that Mom comes on the line and speaks to me, her tone gently reproachful.

"He's in a very nasty mood, Sydney."

"Yes, Mom," I giggle.

"It's going to take me ages, and cups and cups of coffee, to calm him down."

"I should have realised that, Mom."

"Maybe even a sedative."

"I'm sorry, Mom."

"Yes, you should be," she sighs, "but then, so should I. I did ask you to call when you heard- and you have heard, haven't you? I'm assuming that's why you called."

"Yes," I bite my lip, and bounce from one foot to the other, "I have."

She waits.

"Well?" she prods at last.

"Well what?" I return innocently, and I think if she hadn't been worried what Dad would do if she left him alone, I probably would have received a visit from her in short order also.

"Sydney Anne, it's just past four in the morning. My patience is not what it ought to be. Either you tell me what you found out, or so help me girl, I will-"

"I'm pregnant."

Silence. Then,

"What?"

"I'm pregnant, Mom. Expecting. _Enceinte_. In the family way. A delicate condition. I'm going to have a baby."

"A- another one?"

"No, Mom, we're recycling the one we have now. Yes, another one! That's what all of this dizziness and everything has been about. I'm going to have a baby."

A short silence, and then-

"Sydney, that- that's _wonderful_ news! I'm _so_ happy for you! Jack!" she calls, "Jack, get out of bed! Your daughter is going to have a baby!"

I hear his grouchy, muttered, "Hallelujah," and have to laugh.

"Don't antagonize him," I advise her.

"Antagonize him?! His baby girl is having a baby, and you don't want me to antagonize him?! How, may I ask, can I _not_ antagonize him?! Jack! Jonathan! _Bristow!_ Get up! Now! Come congratulate your daughter! And your son-in-law, for that matter- how's Michael taking it, anyway, Sydney?"

I glance over at my husband.

"Sitting down."

We both laugh, then, and I reassure her that Michael is ecstatic.

"He tried to get Emily to say hello to the new baby," I laugh, and we spend the next five minutes crooning over how sweet that is, until Dad picks up on the line and slurs,

"Sydney?"

"Hi, Daddy!"

"You're pregnant?"

"Yes!"

"You- how?"

I blush furiously- somehow, I just can't bring myself to tell him. This isn't, really, after all, the sort of talk that you want to have with your father.

Mom, though, comes to my rescue.

"I'll explain it to you later, Jack," she says tartly. "For now, don't you think you ought to congratulate our little girl?"

"Congratulations," Dad sighs. "Now can I go back to bed?"

"I told you not to eat so much," Mom scolds, "it always makes you cranky later."

Dad makes weak attempts to protest this, but is firmly overruled by Mom.

"Cranky," she maintains, and at last he relents.

"Fine. Cranky. But- can't I please just go back to bed?"

"Sydney?" Mom wonders, and I smile.

"He needs his rest," I say, and she sniffs, as if to say she thinks I'm spoiling him, but Dad is grateful.

"We'll do lunch," he suggests, "tomorrow."

I am agreeable, and wish him a good night. He thanks me, and the receiver clatters back onto the cradle to the tune of Mom's tinkling laughter.

"He's such a grouch," she says, and there is such affection in her tone I have to smile.

"You really do love him, don't you, Mom?"

"Oh," she sighs blissfully, "yes, Sydney. More and more every day."

I smile.

"I'm happy for you- for both of you."

"Well, thank you, darling," she says, touched. "That's very sweet of you. After all, here you are with a wonderful husband, a beautiful daughter and another arrival on the way, and you're telling your mother, living in a little apartment with a tiny window in the living room, that you're happy for her?"

I have to laugh.

"Mom, you aren't still upset about that window, are you?"

"Sydney, it's a Southern window. I need it as big as it can possibly be, or we'll get virtually no light."

She's pouting. I can hear it in her tone, and have to roll my eyes.

"Fine, Mom, you figure it out, and we'll help you install it. How does that sound?"

"Oh, no, dear," she negates gently. "You're pregnant. No heavy lifting for you."

"Mom, I'm only one month along!"

"Well, that's fine then, dear, but still, no heavy lifting."

It would take too much energy to argue. So I don't bother.

"All right, Mom, all right. Now, I had better let you go- we still have to get up for church tomorrow."

"Oh, yes, that's right!" she sounds vaguely surprised. "Of course. I should let you get your rest- you think of some names between now and church time, though, all right? Some decent, strong name, too, please, dear. Or else I may very well have to make you name him or her after your father."

I blink.

"You want me to name my daughter Jack?"

"Jacquelyn, of course, dear. But if you come up with some decent names before I see you again, I'm sure we can avoid that. Sweet dreams, darling."

Shaking my head and biting back laughter, I smile.

"Thank you, Mom, you too."

Then I hang up, gather my dozing child into my arms, and tug my sleepy husband upstairs, to bed.

***

No matter how wonderful a day may have looked under normal conditions, it's bound to look about a million times better when viewed under my condition.

The whole world is sparkling, and I fairly hug myself as I watch the dogs inspect the lawn with care. I still can't quite believe there's a brand new person growing inside me. I trail my fingers over my flat stomach, as if by stroking it enough, I will be able to make it grow just that much faster. I suddenly can't wait to feel the graceful swelling under my arms, or the tickles of life coming from within. Emily, we had been sure, would one day be a world-famous soccer player. Would this baby be even half as energetic in his or her earlier stages of growth?

The very wondering about it makes me thrill. To think about a brand new being . . . one who hasn't even drawn breath yet . . . it's something like a very special secret between God, Michael and me. And, of course, Mom and Dad, and Emily, but still, no less special for its being shared.

By the time I get back inside, Michael has gotten up, showered, and is searching for something to wear.

I retrieve Emily from where she is lying ever-so-patiently in her crib, change and dress her, and then pass her in to her now presentable father before heading to take my own shower. It's a routine we have down to a science- just as I descend the stairs, Michael is laying the table for the toast that is browning and the bacon that is sizzling in the pan. I fluff up some eggs, tuck Emily under my blouse, and we all three sit down to eat.

"How are we for time?" Michael wonders, and I shift Emily expertly to check my watch.

"We've got twenty minutes, easy. Why?"

"I want a picture."

I flush.

"What, of- of Emily?" I ask, knowing that's not what he means.

"Of you. Remember how we took one each week you were pregnant with Emily?"

"Yes, but Mike, I don't think . . ."

"Oh, come on, Syd, why not?"

"Those are humiliating photographs."

"You wore a bodysuit."

"They're still humiliating."

"Why? Nobody ever sees them but us."

"You made a slideshow of them and put them on your computer at work."

"Well, yes, but who sees my computer, anyway?"

"The eight or nine women who have since approached me, saying they know they wouldn't let _their_ husbands get away with it, that's who. And who knows how many others who haven't had the courage to approach me about it."

Mike has the grace to blush.

"If I promise to keep these on the computer at home, will you let me?"

"Mike!"

"Okay, okay! But I really think they're beautiful pictures, Sydney- of both of you."

He looks so earnest I just have to smile.

"I'll think about it," I compromise. "All right? That's all I can promise you."

It seems more than enough for him, because he is quite perky as he bundles Emily into her snowsuit and buckles her into her seat as I shrug into my jacket and locate his for him.

"We set?" I wonder, and he nods, grinning.

"We are. And in plenty of time, too."

"Well, don't even think of stopping off at Tim Hortons or anything before we go- coffee is for after, when caffeine rush won't affect so many people. The last thing we need is you worshipping five bars ahead of everybody else!"

It had happened to us once- the previous Christmas, he had been up all night the night before Christmas Eve wrapping gifts, and had been so worried he'd fall asleep at the Christmas Eve service that he'd downed three French Vanilla cappuccinos, as well as one large black coffee. The man had been so wired they could have plugged the keyboard into him and gotten the full voltage necessary to run it. As it was, my exceedingly well-proportioned belly and I almost had to sit on him to keep him from springing up and offering his services as a one-man manger scene.

"I'll keep it in mind," he smiles, and we buckle Emily and her chair into the back seat before seating ourselves, and carefully backing out onto the streets.

"It'll be snowing soon enough," he muses, deliberately taking the longer route so as to use up a bit of our extra time. "I'll have to dig the snowblower out of the shed, and see what we have in the way of gas."

"Mike, it's not even November yet! Where do you see snow in the forecast?!"

"It's Canada, Sydney. I see snow in the August forecast! If you can have green grass in December, you can get snow in July. It just . . . it works that way up here," he declared with grim certainty, if questionable logic.

I don't bother arguing, although my hormones are in such a state that I would be more than willing to do so. Instead, I settle back against the seat, and rest my hands on my tummy.

Mike, seeing, smiles.

"How's our newest family member doing in there, anyway?" he wonders, and I smile as well.

"Quiet," I murmur, reaching over to take one of his hands, and bringing it to settle under mine.

"Well, that will change soon enough," he declares softly, but there is nothing in his tone that suggests he minds in the least. "What- do you think we should talk about names, yet?"

"Oh, I don't know- Mum wanted us too - said she'd make us name it after Dad if we didn't come up with some - but really, we have what, eight months to go? Plenty of time. Why? Did you have any suggestions?"

"Well- Emily was going to be a William if she was a boy . . . after my father . . . do you still like that idea?"

"Mike, of course I do! And . . . Jonathan, maybe? For Dad? William Jonathan? And . . . if she's a girl . . ."

"I like Sophie," he admits. "For my mother. But only if-"

"Sophie is beautiful," I agree. "Sophie . . . Irene?"

He smiles.

"What is this, the child we use to uproot the family tree? But yes, Sophie Irene is beautiful."

I smile, contented.

"If past precedent is anything to go by," I muse, turning my head to glance at our past precedent sitting in her baby seat, studying the world through the back window over her head, "then the baby will be beautiful, too."

"I have every confidence," he smiles, "that she - he - will be."

That reminds me of something.

"This time, are we going to be able to agree on what it's going to be?" I wonder.

Last time I was pregnant, we'd had a raging debate on the gender of the upcoming arrival. Mike had won out, in the end, and I had been happy for him- just because I'd been sure it would be a boy, didn't mean I was looking forward to dump trucks and matchbox cars underfoot.

Of course, hair barrettes hurt as well, so I figure that by the time Emily and the new baby are a few years older, gender will really not matter at all- either one will have plenty of goodies to strew underfoot.

"Want to stay for luncheon after?" Mike wonders idly, stopping to let a car turn off of the highway in front of us before gathering speed once again. "Or would you rather go home and rest?"

I roll my eyes.

"Mike, I'm not made of porcelain, and I am far from being tired. I am going to be starving, though, so yes, I definitely want to stay to lunch. Unless you're tired . . ."

Mike, though, assures me that he's not.

"I was just worried . . ."

"I know you were, darling, and I appreciate it- really, I do." I lean over to kiss him as he brakes for two small children crossing where they shouldn't be.

"It's my job," he grins, starts to accelerate, and then slows, frowning through the windshield at the crowd that comes into view, stretched out across the street.

"What is this?!"

"It looks . . . it looks like a film crew, but I don't see how . . ."

Comprehension, though, already appears to be dawning in his face, and he nods as he brakes to a complete halt.

"They're filming a documentary here, I completely forgot."

"What? Who is?"

"Some American production company- something about the hidden beauty of small towns."

"Well," I consider, "if they make a documentary on the hidden beauty of small towns, then it won't be hidden any more, will it? And we'll still be late for church. I think that was very inconsiderate and short-sighted of them."

Mike smothers a chuckle as a man wearing some sort of official-looking vest approaches us, and gestures at my husband to roll down the window, which he does.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Sir, but we're filming."

"Yes," Mike nods pleasantly, "I can see that. Why are you filming here?"

"Well, we're doing a documentary, like, on the hidden-"

"No, I mean, why are you filming _here_? This is a crossroads- you've very much inconvenienced a great number of people. Are you sure you got this exact location approved by the town?"

Our little friend is not one hundred percent positive, but is pretty darn confident, so Mike has to swing back around, and take us all the way through town and out onto the back roads to get to church.

"At least we won't be the only ones," he observes. "The Clarks will have to go out to the highway before they can get into town . . . I can't believe that location would have been okayed. I'm going to talk to Louise after the service and see what I can find out. That could be a serious problem if anybody needed . . . I don't know . . . an ambulance, or something."

"Well, we'll just pray that nobody does," I decide, and we leave it at that.

The rest of the ride - what there is of it - is uneventful, and as we pull into the church parking lot, I see that Mike was correct, and we are far from the last to arrive.

It's something of a relief, because I always feel horrible running in just in the nick of time.

Even if we'd been late, though, I doubt I'd have cared, or even noticed, because of what happens before we get inside.

Just before we reach the doors, Mike stops, Emily's seat in his arms, and tilts his head, squinting off into the distance.

I follow his gaze, but it takes me a while to see what he does. When I do, though, I am honestly thunderstruck.

Snow.

Well, not snow, in the strictest, most Canadian sense of the word. Tiny white flecks of solidified water is more like it, floating lazily down from the sky, soon to become nothing more than drops of water underfoot, and definitely nothing close to real, honest-to-goodness snow. But flakes, nonetheless.

I shake my head, and glance at Mike.

He doesn't say "I told you so" - he's better than that, after all - but it's there, twinkling in those green eyes of his, and for that reason I swat him on the arm before he holds the door open for me, and I walk ahead of him, into the church.

***

***

Thanks everybody for your amazing support! Yes, I know it took me ages, and I'm so sorry for that, but I'm just so glad people are reading it! Great to know!

Thank you everybody for your suggestions, as well- have some great ideas already, but of I can work other peoples' in, I will try to do so, because having never been pregnant myself, I appreciate the wisdom of those who have!

If you liked this, you also owe a debt of thanks to Stacey for all the pokes and brainstorming she offered, without which this never would have been up by today. Stacey, from me and everybody else who was glad to see an update, thank you so much!

Now, keep watching for the next chap, and I'll try to have it up as soon as I can!


	10. Chapter Nine

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- It's been a while hasn't it? I know, and I'm sorry- it's just that school is so crazy, and I've got university to worry about now, so writing has been sort of . . . pushed aside. I am still definitely planning on finishing this, though, so no fears on that account! It's just gonna take me a little longer than initially expected, and your patience is greatly appreciated!

Thanks to Carolyn for the proofread, and I don't know if I stress this enough, either, but all of you guys are just fantastic- I so appreciate all of the encouraging reviews, e-mails, and constructive criticism I've been getting while writing this. They mean such a lot to me, and they really help keep me going, so thanks so much to all of you. And Stacey- well, you just make me keep going, period. Thank you.

Now please, enjoy!

***

*** 

Just before we reach the doors, Mike stops, Emily's seat in his arms, and tilts his head, squinting off into the distance.

I follow his gaze, but it takes me a while to see what he does. When I do, though, I am honestly thunderstruck.

Snow.

Well, not snow, in the strictest, most Canadian sense of the word. Tiny white flecks of solidified water is more like it, floating lazily down from the sky, soon to become nothing more than drops of water underfoot, and definitely nothing close to real, honest-to-goodness snow. But flakes, nonetheless.

I shake my head, and glance at Mike.

He doesn't say "I told you so" - he's better than that, after all - but it's there, twinkling in those green eyes of his, and for that reason I swat him on the arm before he holds the door open for me, and I walk ahead of him, into the church.

***

"Isn't it awful?!" is the first thing I hear. "It's just terrible! You cannot tell me that the location was approved by the town, you just cannot! I won't believe it, do you hear me?! I won't!"

"What's wrong, Kathy?" Mike wonders, and Kathy, who was in mid-rant, glances up, away from a sympathetic Lisa, her distress at the inconvenience obvious.

"That idiotic documentary. We had to double back to the highway and take the back route, and so did a lot of other people."

I smile, shrugging out of my coat before I walk over to join them.

"It does seem strange," I agree, "and Mike said he'd speak to Louise to see if she knew anything about it. Until then, though, there really isn't much we can do about it, right? So let's go inside- do you know if they've started the sermon yet?"

"No, they're waiting for an extra ten minutes to allow for the late arrivals . . ." Lisa eyes me with curiosity. "Syd?"

"Mmm?"

"Is there something you want to tell us?"

I am honestly startled.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you- I mean, you always look great, but this morning . . . honey, you're _glowing_."

I blush.

"I am not glowing."

"Oh yes," she nods earnestly, "you are. You are definitely glowing. Your eyes are sparkling, your smile is about two miles wide . . . what's going on?!"

I glance back at Mike, who is done unwrapping Emily from the confines of her snowsuit, and raise an eyebrow. He shrugs.

"Go ahead, sweetheart."

So I turn back to face her, and, taking a deep breath, blurt it out.

"We're having a baby."

Lisa's scream could have easily shattered then windows in a less sturdy building, but as it is, they merely rattle.

"Get OUT!"

"No, we really- we are," I grin at her, and am suddenly enveloped in a fierce hug as she buries her face in my shoulder.

"Sweetheart, that's fantastic! I- wow! What a gift! Did you just find out?"

"Last night- well, this morning, really - yes, we did."

"Wow! That's just- that's . . . wow!"

I have to laugh at her inability to sufficiently express her joy. Her eyes are shining and her whole face is aglow as she opens her mouth as if to speak, hesitates, closes it, opens it again, then closes it again, the proper words just not available at this time.

"You don't have to talk, you know," I laugh. "I know you're happy for me, and-"

"Happy? Sydney, I'm thrilled beyond belief! This is the best thing you could have told me! I'm just . . . I- wow!"

"Me, too," I giggle. "Me, too."

She hugs me yet again, then transfers her attentions to Mike.

"And what are you thinking about this?" she twinkles, and gets a rather apprehensive grin.

"I'm thrilled," he says quickly, "and a little- well, I'm nervous, too. I mean, we were basket cases with one- how are we gonna be now that we know how hard it'll be?!"

Lisa laughs, and hugs him as well.

"You'll be twice as good at it," she reassures him. "I've seen you with Emily, Mike- I have a pretty good idea that these kids are gonna have one of the best fathers around."

She pauses, thinks, and then her eyes twinkle.

"Oh, yes- just so I can have ample time to prepare for the carnage, are we going to see a recurrence of the great gender debate this time around?"

Mike and I exchange mischievous glances. Most of our friends still remembered the heated conflict that had built up over the course of my last pregnancy when Mike and I had not been able to convince the other that we were correct as to what the baby's gender would be, and I can understand Lisa's apprehension.

"Well, I brought up that point in the car," I muse, "but we didn't actually resolve it . . . what do you think, Mike? Care to take a guess as to which it will be? I'd be willing to take the other."

He makes a show of pondering this for a second, then reluctantly shakes his head.

"No- let's just leave it as is. I don't mind, if you don't."

"And if you _don't_ mind," Lisa puts in, "then the entire congregation will thank you, I promise you that. You practically had the whole church divided by the time Emily finally put in an appearance- and all for nothing, because once she was born, we were all so happy for you both that we didn't even bother to remember who had thought she'd be what."

So with that to sway our decision, we agreed to avoid the debate this time around, if only to preserve peace among our people.

"Now," Lisa decides, "let's get in there, shall we? This should definitely be the first praise item we bring up today!"

As she drags me up towards the sanctuary I express reluctance to get to my feet before the entire congregation to announce my condition, but she brushes my hesitation aside with an impatient flick of the wrist.

"Don't be silly- in a few months everybody will know anyway, so why not let them know what's coming?"

She has a point. As she tugs me through the vestry, Mike, Kathy and Emily trailing along behind, I admit this to her.

"You have a point . . ."

"Of course I have a point. Now, will you tell them, or am I going to have to?"

"I will," I say hastily, "I will, I promise. You don't have to do that, Lisa- really, you don't."

Her eyes dance with mischief, but she lets it go at that, and nods.

"Fine. Now, come on- we're gonna miss the opening songs if we don't hurry."

We don't miss them, but we come pretty close. Mike and I squeeze into our pew just as the first bars begin, and he juggles Emily and her seat in beside us before we manage to collect ourselves, entwine our fingers, and join the song.

The music swells up around me, a familiar beauty in the place I feel most home. I can feel Mike beside me, tall, warm and real, and Emily is an ever-constant presence just behind me. This time, though, there is a new sensation- a new awareness that I feel coming from inside me as I match Mike note for note.

A vague little stirring - not so much a physical sensation as one I feel in my spirit.

My grin broadens, and my free hand lifts to rest gently on my still-flat stomach.

__

Hey, in there.

The resultant warmth that comes from my silent greeting spreads all through my body in wave after wave of delicious tingles, as if by acknowledging the presence of another human within me, I've somehow also acknowledged its very humanity. It thrills me to the core, and Mike, sensing, glances down.

"Syd?"

"Mmm?"

"You okay?"

I turn my head and beam up at him.

"I'm fabulous," Michael," I say simply. "Absolutely fabulous."

Then I slide my hand through his arm, and we finish the song together before taking our seats, along with the rest of the congregation.

Announcements are first, and follow the general order of things. There's a potluck Thursday - "Meatloaf, Mike, or casserole?" - the annual apple orchard clean-up - "I don't care how much they beg us to ride with them, Sydney, your mother is NOT driving us again. There is just no way." - Pioneer Sunday is next week - "Was I supposed to know about this before now?" - and the list goes on.

Then at last, with a sort of relief, the request for prayer/praise items.

Now, I won't say that Lisa shoves me to my feet, but I do feel definite physical encouragement from those quarters as I rise - apparently too slowly for her liking.

"Sydney?"

The eyes of the entire church are upon me. Oh, lovely. I've always hated public speaking, even in the midst of my own family, but I know if I don't say it Lisa will, so I nod, and work my jaw.

"We, uh . . . well, Mike and I have a- a praise item. We . . . we're going to . . . we're pregnant," I blurt.

For half a second, nothing.

Then, all at once, a sweeping, swelling tide of joy, starting soft but growing rapidly as it washes around the sanctuary, gathering momentum with each added wave. Voices mingle in congratulations, smiles warm me where I stand, and I feel the quiet strength of my husband's smile as he sits beside me, his hand locked tightly around my own.

"That IS a praise item!" comes the affirmation from the pulpit as at last the roar settles to a gentle murmur. "God's blessings are abundant . . . but never so rich as when He entrusts us with a new life."

His words echo my own thoughts exactly, and my hand plays over the flesh that covers my new child with a sort of awe that I sense will pursue me throughout the entire pregnancy.

Emily had been no less a joy when I was expecting her, but at the time things had been pretty good. Now, having had circumstances be less than ideal, the gift of another child seems like a promise from God of a turnaround of sorts.

__

I can get you through this, I hear Him say. _I can, I will, and this is my way of showing you so._

I nod, smiling, and settle back down next to Mike as other people speak without me really hearing them. I stay enfolded in his arms as the sermon progresses, and Emily's eyes following the rapidly-travelling blades of the fan above her head. Most days, rather than take her up to the nursery, we just let her stay with us. She isn't a fussy baby, and now I take advantage of her agreeability to admire her- a sport I indulge in shamefully often.

Big, brown eyes starting to show just trace amounts of green. Soft, sandy hair wisping into slight curls around perfectly-formed ears. Both parents' foreheads. Her father's pensive expression, and my own smile. Her father's kick, her mother's grip (and, Mike and I agree, my right hook as well) and a little stubborn something all her own.

Mike catches me admiring her, and smiles.

"She's just perfection itself, isn't she?" he verifies, and I nod, beaming proudly as we stand to worship.

"She is," I agree. "She is just that."

"The next one will be too," he murmurs into my ear, and I grin.

"Oh? And how can you be so sure?"

He returns my smile.

"With you for a mother? Oh, come on, Syd! How could it not be?!"

There are times I love that man so much, I could marry him all over again.

***

After the service, I wonder if it's possible to suffocate from too much attention. If so, then I know what the coroner's verdict at my inquest will be- I have barely stepped towards the aisle before half the congregation has surrounded me, the air filling with congratulations, rejoicing and of course, advice.

"You aren't going to keep breast feeding, of course, not with another one on the way . . ."

"It's so strange, Sydney, because I was just telling Travis that you and Mike were about due for another family member."

"Do you have enough equipment? Because we can give you Amy's old things if you need them."

"Are you guys going to plan on any more after this, or is two a nice number?"

"Have you been to your doctor yet? I read something the other day about a new vitamin that's supposed to work wonders . . ."

"I can't tell you both how happy I am for you! If you ever need a sitter . . ."

I'm not sure we'd have ever gotten out if Mom and Dad hadn't taken charge, putting their shoulders to the crowd and nudging people aside to clear a path for us. The flood of noise continues as we make slow - almost unnoticeable - progress out into the vestry where the luncheon table is set up, and Mike offers to go and get me something.

I'm reluctant to be left with my crowd, but Mom, noticing, takes my hand firmly in hers and gestures at Dad to procure the baby seat, which he does with all due promptness.

"You don't mind making a couple trips, now, do you, Michael?" Mom smiles beguilingly, and if there's a man alive today who has been able to resist the full force of that woman's charm, he has yet to meet her. Mike is completely agreeable, and leaving his wife and daughter in the car of his in-laws, he threads his way through the crowd to procure food for all of us.

"Do you want to sit down?" Mom wonders, keeping a pair of middle-aged advice-offerers at bay with surprisingly dexterous shoulders. "There's a chair right over-"

"I'm fine, Mom, really," I cut in gently. "Really. Look, why don't we find Kimberlea, okay? She sang wonderfully- we should tell her so, don't you think?"

Mom is reluctant at first, but I persist. The last thing I need is for the next eight months to be filled with well-meant but overbearing concern, so for the moment, redirection seems the best option. I may have to get more physical as time passes, but at this point in time, this is all it takes.

So Dad shoulders Emily and follows us to where Kimberlea is waiting her turn for the sandwiches, and together we offer our congratulations.

She dimples, and returns them tenfold.

"I hope you'll call me to baby sit," she smiles, and I promise that she will be one of the first.

That errand completed, we now have nothing left to do but to wait for Mike to return from the grim task of obtaining provisions for his family. When at last he does return, spoils clutched to him as if he is afraid they will be snatched from his arms at any moment, it's all we can do not to scarf them down the second he distributes them.

We wait, though, for him to also obtain drinks before hastily thanking him, and tucking into what he brought for us.

All around us people are doing the same, so it's a while before Mom notices just how much I'm actually consuming.

"Sydney, how many sandwiches does that make?"

"I'm not . . . precisely . . . sure," I hedge, quickly finishing it off in case she were to snatch it from my grasp. "I think . . . maybe . . uh . . ." I mumble something under my breath, and she arches an eyebrow.

"Sydney?"

"Nine," I blurt, and her eyes widen in spite of herself.

"Nine?! My dear girl!"

"But I'm _hungry_!" I protest. "Really, really hungry!"

"Mrs. Bristow, I feed her at home, I promise I do," poor Mike looks as if he expects a blow, or worse, from my parents, but instead of attacking, Mom just grins.

"Of course you are. I forgot . . . of course you are. Can I get you another one?"

I blink, considering.

"Uh . . . no, thank you, I think I'm going to have dessert now. Mike, didn't you say something about a coffee cake?"

I have my coffee cake, as well as six sugar cookies, four muffins and three sour cream glazed Timbits I salvaged from a box that somebody brought for the younger children. Then, as I settle down into a chair Dad finds for me with a cup of tea, I decide that all told, it's been an especially wonderful Sunday.

"Ready to go home?" Mike wonders as Mom excuses herself to help the ladies in clearing away the remnants of our unusual feast, and people begin drifting towards the doorways. I nod reluctantly, and get to my feet.

"I suppose I am. Where's Emily?"

"Your father took her- he's showing her off."

"Again?"

"Again."

"Well, do we get her back, or leave him to deal with her?"

"I vote retrieval," Mike admits. "If you let them take her home, we might never get her back again."

This is true, so together we go in search of the proud grandfather. He is located just inside the older entryway, supervising the cuddling of his granddaughter by a couple of parents whose children are well beyond the snuggling stage. Emily is playing up shamelessly to her enthralled audience, and Mike and I exchange rueful smiles before clearing our throats in tandem to announce our presence to the group of adorers.

Dad grins at us, and asks if we've yet changed our minds about selling her to him.

"Not even close," I laugh, moving to pluck her from the arms of a reluctant gentleman. "Not even close. Now, if you'll excuse the princess, ladies and gentleman, she has a nap to get home to."

They excuse her, albeit reluctantly, and once I've bestowed a kiss and hug upon my father I rejoin Mike, who fits his arm around my waist and guides me out the door.

"She's going to be the most spoilt rotten little kid in the whole town if we don't watch it," he remarks, retrieving her seat while I wait, jiggling my daughter on my hip. "And I certainly don't want to be a father to the most spoilt rotten little kid in town."

"What, are you suggesting we let Daddy take her?" I twinkle, and the look on his face is so priceless, it's all I can do not to dissolve into laughter at the sight.

"Bite your tongue!" he yelps. "You just bite your tongue! I- Sydney, if you even think that . . ." he trails off, unable to adequately express the full depth of his horror at such a suggestion. Fortunately there is not need, as Mom chooses now to emerge from the kitchen, cup towel and coffeepot in hand, to ask what's going on.

"Aren't you two ever going to leave?" she wonders, shaking the coffee pot at us in a gesture of mock exasperation. "Michael, my daughter needs her rest!"

I roll my eyes, but Mike is dead serious as he nods.

"Of course she does- I'm sorry. We'll leave right away."

I roll my eyes again at my mother, this time in honest exasperation, and she permits herself a tiny smile before putting another question to us.

"Before you do leave, though, have you seen Jack? We could use an extra pair of hands in here."

"I think he's in the front entry," I say, and almost at once there comes the sound of running feet.

"Well," Mom smirks, "at any rate, he _was_. Now if I want to find him, I'm going to have to chase him down . . . and I really haven't time for that. Oh, lovely."

She shakes her head, and hollers in the general direction of the sound of my father's retreat,

"I hope you're pretty proud of yourself, Jonathan! Now it'll take me twice as long to get our supper on, and it'll be all your fault! How do you like that, huh?"

He doesn't answer her, but I know my father fairly well, and I have a pretty good idea that he'll be joining her before very much time has passed.

Secure in that knowledge, I offer Mom a hug and kiss, and watch as she extracts the same treatment from Mike, as well as a vague squeeze and a generous, open-mouthed smack from her granddaughter.

"You take care of them, now, won't you, Mike?" she asks sternly, and my husband nods in all earnestness, missing the humorous twinkle dancing in her eyes.

"I always do, Laura."

She nods, laughing.

"I know you do, Michael. I know you do. I can't think of anybody better suited to the job of looking after them . . . now, you get them home, and you see if you can't convince Sydney to take it easy for the next few months. It will not," she admits with beguiling candor, "be at all easy, but I have faith that you'll be equal to the task."

He nods, but the expression on his face might best be described as one of vague apprehension.

"I hope so," he mutters, and Mom's resulting smile is almost beatific in its tranquility.

"I know so," she reassures him. "I am quite positive. Now go on, all of you, and get yourselves home before the spring thaw. We," she frowns, "might still be here then, but that's no reason to make you suffer, too."

We thank her, wish her all our best in her hunt for Dad, and make our way down to the coat rack where we stop only long enough to grab our coats before continuing on.

It takes only a minute to get Emily buckled in properly, but a considerably longer period of time for us to arrange ourselves in an acceptable fashion.

First Mike realises he's dropped his glove somewhere along the way, and has to retrace his steps to locate it. When he returns to the car he find that I'm gone, because I remembered I left our casserole dish inside. The retrieval of the dish is even further hampered by Rose, who wonders if I know where my mother took off to.

I give her my best guess - in search of Dad - before Mike reappears and wonders what I'm doing. I explain as we make our way out to the car, where, upon closing the door, Mike jams his thumb.

This means, of course, another trip back into the church - this time to search for ice - where we encounter Mom hustling Dad along to the kitchen where a pile of dishes still waits. We iron out a few meeting plans with them for the upcoming week before we once more return to the car, this time with me taking up residence behind the wheel, since the bulky dish towel on Mike's thumb would make steering a tad difficult.

I'm perfectly prepared to start driving, only Emily is suddenly convinced she needs nothing so desperately as she does a clean diaper, so I have to stop the car before we've even left the parking lot, and verify that things are, indeed, rather critical back there.

Once she's been changed we do finally start on our way, and I realise as we do that I'm already wrung right out.

"How," I wonder faintly, "am I possibly going to manage _two_ of them?!"

Mike, pain dulling his mental processes just a smidgen, blinks at me in confusion.

"Two of what?"

"Children!"

"Oh."

I shake my head, chewing on my bottom lip.

"I just . . . I mean, I'm thrilled about this, Mike, naturally I am. But I'm also just so, so scared. We- well, we're still pretty new at this. " I glance back to where Emily is gumming happily on her fist. "Very new at this."

"Yeah," he nods, "we are."

"And now with . . . with this whole, nasty mess we've been dealing with, what with Sark maybe being here, and putting me on edge . . . that can't be healthy, can it?"

He shakes his head.

"No, it can't."

"Not for me or the baby."

"Not for you or the baby."

I take a deep breath, suddenly aware that my knuckles are quite white and my hands themselves are trembling.

"I just . . . I want this to be over, Mike. I want it so badly to be over for good . . ."

He nods, and reaches over with his good hand grip one of mine until some of the tension eases out, and the knuckles return to almost their normal colour.

"It will be, Sydney," he says calmly. "It will be."

"But when?"

I would turn my head to look at him, but I'm driving, so that just wouldn't be smart.

"When will it be over, Mike? When Emily starts at University, and we're paying graduation head tax for this one?! Is that when we'll finally be able to settle down and say it's probably very well possibly finally over? Because you know, Mike, I really don't think that I can wait that long! I really don't!"

To his credit, the man does not tell me that it will all be okay, or that everything will be fine. Instead, he nods his head slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Neither could I, I don't think," he agrees. "I think I'd go crazy if we had to spend the next twenty years looking over our shoulders all the time. But I do not believe that it will take us that long to get our lives sorted out, Sydney. I really don't. Yes, we've got some . . . entanglements that still have to be dealt with, and yes, it may take us quite some time to deal with them. But we've got some very powerful allies, Sydney, and I don't believe for a second that your parents or God are going to leave us hanging. We can deal with this, Sweetheart- can, and, when we have to, will."

I nod, drawing strength just from the even tones in which he speaks the words.

"You okay?" he wants to know, and I manage a nod.

"Yeah, I'm . . . I'll be fine. I think-" I manage a little smile, turning onto Bridge Street, "I think it was mostly just the hormones kicking in. Silly, isn't it?"

"No," he shakes his head, smiling tenderly at me. "Not silly. Not silly at all. You're- wow, Sydney, you're incredible. You never fail to amaze me, really. Always so unbelievably strong . . . I mean, I've been through a lot with you, but you've been through way more, and yet you never let it get to you."

I am about to protest this, and seeing, he revises his statement.

"Oh, sure, sometimes you break down a bit. Who wouldn't? But really, inside . . . it hasn't gotten to you there yet. In fact, I really don't think that it ever will- I don't think that it can. And that is just one of the hundreds of thousands of reasons that I am madly in love with you."

It's thanks to this impassioned speech that I am a weepy mess by the time I finally pull into our driveway, and he promptly envelops me in his arms, holding me tight to him and letting me cry.

"What wonderful thing," I sob, "did I do that made God think I deserved to have you to share my life with?"

Mike pulls back and looks down at me, eyes twinkling.

"Now, that's funny," he muses.

"What?" I wonder, sniffling.

"That's exactly the same thing I wonder about me," he says softly, kissing away as many tears as he can locate on my streaky cheeks before sitting back with utmost reluctance.

"Now, why don't I grab the little missy back there, and we call go inside?"

I first wait patiently for him to procure Emily's seat - and Emily in it. Then, with me slipping my hand through his elbow and him matching me stride-for-stride up the walk and into the house where dogs, warmth, comfortable chaos and relative normalcy await us, that is exactly what we do.

***

***

Yes, I know it took forever and ever . . . the next one will probably be a while coming too, but hopefully not as long. I found this one harder to write because it was so ordinary, I was just stumped! I don't like to pin any definite time frame on the next one, though . . . it just seems unwise.

I do, though, promise that I'll write as often and as fast as I am able, that I will ask Stacey to continue with her generous pokes (much appreciated as always, Stace) and that I'll try my darndest to get this done . . .

Reviews help! They really do! So leave me lots, and I'll see if I can't come up with something halfway decent to show you in a little while, okay? Thanks so much, and keep reading!


	11. Chapter Ten

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

-All right, I think I'm making headway here. I actually have this thing more or less plotted through to the end now, and it shouldn't be much longer before it's done. At least, I hope it won't be, anyway- I am not about to promise anything for sure, but as long as I can find the time to type it up, it should move along at a reasonable pace. It's just the time that's the tricky thing . . .

As usual, a huge thanks goes out to everybody who's reviewed, encouraged, critiqued and (Stacey) poked me along the whole way through. Every word has meant such a lot, and Stacey, I don't even really mind you're holding our story hostage- it just unnerves me that I'm actually responding.

Now please read, enjoy, and tell me all about it!

***

*** 

"What wonderful thing," I sob, "did I do that made God think I deserved to have you to share my life with?"

Mike pulls back and looks down at me, eyes twinkling.

"Now, that's funny," he muses.

"What?" I wonder, sniffling.

"That's exactly the same thing I wonder about me," he says softly, kissing away as many tears as he can locate on my streaky cheeks before sitting back with utmost reluctance.

"Now, why don't I grab the little missy back there, and we call go inside?"

I first wait patiently for him to procure Emily's seat - and Emily in it. Then, with me slipping my hand through his elbow and him matching me stride-for-stride up the walk and into the house where dogs, warmth, comfortable chaos and relative normalcy await us, that is exactly what we do.

***

The next few months go by much faster than I would have credited. Even the people associated with the documentary start to blend into the scenery after a while, and it gets so we barely notice them. And it seems that no sooner have we closed up the house in October to avoid a hoard of trick-or-treaters and stood outside in November slush to honour the few remaining war vets than it's December, and the real fun begins.

I barely have time to dig the manger scene out of its box before, in a swirl of last-minute shopping and sparkling lights, the Christmas season arrives, with all the joys, headaches and ibuprofen that go along with it- not to mention the inborn air of intrigue and mystery. Mom and I sneak off on secret errands almost daily, and Dad and Mike do much the same. The house never smells so sweet as it does when filled with the rich aroma of baking gingerbread, and Emily is wide-eyed with wonder at the sight of the adults she loves and trusts gone stark, raving mad.

It takes Mike, Emily and me all afternoon one Saturday to pick just the perfect tree, and when we go out that night to help Mom and Dad locate a similar item, Archie eats ours. We arrive home to a carpet of pine needles and tree sap, and it takes every ounce of Mike's strength to hold me back. Otherwise, I'm sure I'd have throttled the beast then and there.

The next tree remains intact mainly because Archie is banished to the kitchen for the remainder of the holiday season, save for the times when Mom arrives and takes him and Emily for long, leisurely walks to admire other peoples' Christmas lights.

Our own lights are something of an issue, since I am outright forbidden to climb up and hang them, and Mike is petrified of heights. It therefore falls to Mom and Dad to complete the task, but hanging Christmas lights is a task much like hanging wallpaper- a true test of a strong marriage. It tales three failed attempts ending in raging fights, one in which they almost come to blows, before they are able to finish the chore, just two scant days before Christmas.

When at last Christmas Eve is upon us, we're all of us mere shadows of our former selves. Stealing a few minutes just prior to leaving for the Christmas Eve service at the church, we flop down in the living room and watch Emily finish up her afternoon nap in her playpen in the middle of the floor.

Archie, allowed out just for the occasion, is stretched out next to her, to all appearances a fearsome guardian ready to tear out the throat of the first person to look sideways at her, when in reality he'd likely turn tail and run hard and fast the other way. Donovan is snuggled down deep in Mike's lap, and I am envying him his position. Mom and Dad, cuddling up to each other on the loveseat, are so thoroughly intertwined that I'm sure that half the time they're drinking out of each others' mugs of cider, and not even noticing the difference.

"I'm sure this isn't the way it's supposed to be," I murmur, snuggling in under Mike's arm.

"What isn't the way what's supposed to be?" Mom wants to know, drinking from a cup that looks suspiciously like it's being held my Dad- not that I can follow the wrist back very far before it's lost in a warm tangle of bodies, anyway.

"This madness- this rush. This isn't Christmas."

"I wish you could have told us that back in late November," Dad mutters, gulping from a cup held by a hand I am positive is not his own. "It would have saved us quite a bundle."

"I'm serious, Dad," I frown, examining my own cider. "It's . . . too distracting. We start to forget why we even celebrate it in the first place in the rush to go get all our shopping, baking and decorating done before the twenty-fifth. I don't enjoy it."

"And yet," Dad points out, "you were the one who so masochistically started the tradition of the Christmas morning potluck, were you not? Just when we should be kicking back, starting to relax after this month of all out Olympic torture, you made it necessary for us to string ourselves out for yet another day."

"Ah, yes," Mom's eyes sparkle, "I've been hearing a lot about this potluck these days from all quarters, and I'm getting curious as to just what to expect."

"Everything," Dad grimaces. "Anything and everything. Every Christmas Day starting at about noon, this house steadily fills up with people and food until a person can barely breathe. If you so much as raise your foot, you're in huge trouble, because it's unlikely you'll be able to find a clear space in which to set it down."

"And all this," Mike sighs, "because three years ago, Sydney stood up in church, and said something along the lines of 'Party, our place, Christmas Day. Bring food'. And you know us Baptists and food . . ."

Mom, who does all too well, bursts into peals of laughter that nearly upset both her and Dads' communal cups.

"Sydney, you didn't!" she gasps, when at last she regains coherence, and I nod shamefacedly.

"I did. Only last year, it was something of a blessing- I was so pregnant with Em, and I didn't feel like cooking, so to have all of that food heaped on the dining room table, and all the dishes taken home at the end of the day, was just . . . lovely."

"It would have been," Mom agrees, nestling back into Dad's complex embrace and sipping from, I think, the mug she herself is holding. "Is there anything particular we should bring?"

I ponder this.

"No," I decide at last, "Rose claimed the turkey this year, and Fiona begged for the honor of preparing the ham, so all we need is the trimmings. Maybe that turnip bake you do so well? And a Jell-O salad, or something of the like. That should cover it."

Mom nods, confirming her ability to handle this.

"Right. Consider it done, my darling. And I also want your solemn promise, young lady, that you are not taking on more than you can handle, here."

I smile, and shake my head.

"Honestly, Mom, I'm not. I enjoy it."

"The claustrophobia, hysteria, and five star chaos," Dad nods in bewildered confirmation of this fact, "she enjoys it. Yes, Laura, this is indeed your child."

"Don't have to tell me that, Jack," Mom says tartly, "I was there. The whole fifteen hours, twenty-eight minutes and nine and a half seconds, I was there."

Dad apologizes, finishes off somebody's cider, and asks if we had better start getting ready to leave.

"Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting we've got performers in the family," Mike grins, earning a self-conscious mumble from Dad, a complacent smile from Mom and a swat from me.

"In the loosest sense of the word," I snort, and Mike affects a look of surprise.

"In every sense of the word! And next year, unless they can't find something else for Emily to do, I guess I'll have to do something as well. Because they'll probably recruit number two, here," patting my still mostly-flat stomach, "for her part next year, and I have a feeling I'm not going to like this sitting alone thing . . ."

This earns him hugs from all of us (well, not Dad- he's busy bending over to talk softly to Archie before scooping up a sweetly-snoozing Emily) and reassurances as to how much we'll be thinking of him while we're up there.

"Now, Sydney," Mom takes charge gracefully, "why don't you make sure you have your music? Jack can bundle Emily, Mike can go start up the car, and I'll get your things for you. Sound all right?"

It sounds fine, and works even better. We're off in a matter of minutes, all cozied down in Mike's car since Mom and Dad will be coming home with us for more cider before going home again anyway.

"Is Emily all set for her big debut?" Dad teases, glancing back. Emily is now quite awake, and her eyes are roving around the car. They light on Mike, and with a beatific smile, she addresses him.

"Daa?"

He grins foolishly, and almost takes us off the road. Mom and Dad exchange startled looks.

"Since when does she do that?!" Mom gapes, and I grin.

"Since this morning. She was sitting in her high chair, and suddenly she just up and looked at him and called him by name."

"And about bloody time, too!" Mike proclaims. "She's been calling you Mama for over a month now! I was feeling very left out!"

"It was probably just the consonant that took her a while, Mike," Mom soothes. "Now, Sydney, here, was just the opposite. She was her daddy's girl almost from day one, wasn't she, Jack? Do you remember that?"

Dad nods in fond recollection.

"Yeah, I sure do. She knew which of us she'd be able to wrap right around her little finger- she sized us both up for weaknesses, saw you were sorely lacking while I had them in spades, and moved in for the kill. I haven't been the same since."

I have to laugh at this, reaching over as I do to make sure Emily's mittens - Mom's first real triumph in the knitting department - are securely tucked onto her hands.

"Who's gonna be a daddy's girl now, I wonder?" I coo, making her giggle, and reach up to pat my cheek. "Is Em gonna be a shameless little daddy's girl? I think she is- I really do."

Emily, too, seems confident of this fact- or at least, she beams a sunny, toothless grin and gurgles, interspersing these with a string of baby nonsense that have me lapse into something just about as intelligible. Mom joins me, and the two big, tough men in the front seat, rather than rolling their eyes, look jealous that they're missing out.

"Who's playing Mary this year, anyway?" Mike wonders after a few more minutes' silence, and I answer him.

"Bella. She's doing a wonderful job, too- you should see her with Emily during rehearsals. She looks exactly as if she really were an honest-to-goodness mother- I think it might frighten Martha just a bit to see her looking so natural up there."

Mom muses that she has no doubt, and then coos in delight as Emily catches hold of her hand that she might better examine the rings she is wearing. Her little face is a mask of concentration as she focuses, and as usual, we all delight in watching her.

"I wonder what she's thinking," I muse, watching as one chubby little finger probes clumsily at a sparkling sapphire.

"Who knows?" Mom murmurs. "Something . . . something magnificent, maybe."

"You think so?" I am intrigued beyond ordinary reason.

"It's possible." Mom gently slides her arm a bit away from Emily to ease strain on her elbow. "I mean, look at that face . . . all the mysteries and then some in those eyes, don't you think?"

The eyes of which she speaks blink up at us in the darkness of the car, gleaming almost black in reflections of illumination given off by street lights that enters by way of the windows. In normal light, they would be a deep, chocolate brown flecked slightly with green, but as it is, they do indeed look like they could hold great secrets behind them. I smile down at the tiny face that showcases them, and am rewarded with a like smile in return.

"You are most wonderful, my lovely," I tell her gently, and she listens to me with all due gravity. "You are the most wonderful thing Mummy has ever done, I think . . ."

"That goes double for Daddy," Mike says with feeling as he swings the car into the church parking lot, and the worm, golden glow of the lights that are illuminating the interior spill out through the frosted windowpanes onto the snow-sugared ground. "Now, here we are- everybody all set to go in?"

We are and assure him of this, Mom securing Emily as we do. Then she gets out of the car and passes her granddaughter to Dad so she can make sure I haven't forgotten my music (I haven't) and that she hasn't forgotten her or Dad's music (she hasn't. Of course).

Then we huddle together and make our way across the drive, made all the more treacherous by the fact that it's frozen solid with only a light dusting of snow, making it dangerously slippery. Twice Mom catches me before I go sliding, and once I catch her. Once we between us catch Mike, and Dad, of course, is unshakable, and needs no catching. Which is just as well, since he'd have probably crushed us all if he decided to take a tumble when we were in the way.

When we get inside Bella is waiting, a nervous-looking Virgin in floor-length blue that brings out her wide, worried eyes to a painful perfection.

"My dear, you look like you're about to throw up," Mom says with brutal frankness. "What's wrong?"

"I think I'm going to throw up," she says, her tones faint. "I- I don't usually . . . do this . . . you know. The- the stage stuff, I mean. What if I- what if I mess it up?"

"Piffle," Mom snorts, somehow shrugging out of her coat, passing her things to me and heading over to Bella all at once. "You sang beautifully not two months ago, didn't you? And I think you have been doing an inspired job during rehearsals . . . it's all just a case of nerves, my dear, and nothing more. Now, aren't you supposed to be wearing some sort of shawl on your head? Or have we done away with that?"

"No, I'm supposed to be . . . I took it off when I thought I was going to be sick . . . I didn't want it to get dirty."

"Commendable," Mom nods, steering the thirteen-year-old discreetly away from the door where her audience will be entering in short order. "Now let's go find it, shall we? And I will request that you give me a few minutes of your valuable time to help me with gathering in my own little urchins and seeing that they are ready to play their parts . . . could you do that for me?"

I hear Bella's faint affirmative as they disappear, and shake my head in amazement.

"That woman is a marvel," I sigh in envy, as Dad carefully peels Emily's snowsuit off of her and Mike relieves me of the things Mom tossed at me before. "An absolute marvel."

"You don't have to tell me that," Dad laughs. "I married her, remember? Twice."

This, I acknowledge, is true. Then I excuse myself to the washroom, where I briefly examine my reflection in the mirror set above the sink. I am wearing a dress that's more than slight degrees too tight for me, since I'm at the point in my pregnancy when rotundity has progressed to a point where I will soon be required to either let out seams or buy new clothes.

I smile, recalling the scene in Mike's and my bedroom earlier that evening- after three dresses and no noticeable success with any of them, I had flopped down onto the bed in my skivvies with a little sigh of exasperation when I saw that none were going to work.

When Mike had walked through, though, and asked what the problem was, and I told him, he was not at all sympathetic- far from it, he was jubilant.

"Really?! Let me see!"

So, making a face at him, I had hiked up my slip and displayed the progression of curves into rolls, and at the sight of the very slightest outward curve on my otherwise flat stomach, his face had practically glowed as he caught me up and spun me about.

"That's our baby!" he had whooped, and as the significance of his words impacted me I had in that instant felt irritation melt away into warm, tingly joy. "That's our baby doing that! Syd, that's fabulous! I guess now we know who'll be exchanging all of HER gifts on Boxing Day, don't we?!"

Now, standing in front of the mirror and trying to narrow my shoulders enough to ease the ridiculous strain on my poor dress, I can't help but experience a renewal of that same warm, rich glow. Sure, I may be putting on a bit, but when one thinks of the reason, it hardly seems to compare. It's just . . . unthinkably wonderful.

A quick pat to my hair and I consider myself as done as I will be. Tossing excuses to my parent and spouse I head in the direction taken by Mom and Bella not too long ago, finding myself in the choir room with several members of said group in various states of readiness.

"Sydney!" I am swooped down upon almost at once. ""Sydney, where's your father? We want him to practice his solo with the new pianist right away."

"New? What happened to Sharon?"

"She slipped on the ice this morning and broke her arm- she won't be able to play, so Fiona's filling in."

"But I need Fiona to practice myself!"

"Then why don't you use her now? I'll go find your father. Sound fair?"

It sounds fair enough, so I hurry over to the piano, where poor Fiona looks about ready to break down.

"Are you set?" I wonder, and she gives me a weak smile in return.

"Only by God's grace will I ever be," she mutters, trying a chord that is obviously not the right one. "Ugh. This does not bode well . . . but anyway, the real question is, are _you_ set? As I see it, we've got enough time to run through it once- maybe twice, if we do it right - before they need me for something else."

I nod, and pass her my music, which she thumbs through quickly before setting it up on the piano.

"Right. Now, intro . . ." she begins to play, her hands caressing the keys with incredible skill and tenderness, coaxing out notes that are sweet, pure, and timeless, despite the advanced age of the instrument on which she plays.

I find myself getting lost in it, the melody rising up around me in waves, so that I barely even notice Fiona's nod to begin, or my own voice emerging to join with the notes, blending into them a special character all its own.

The words come without me hearing, and I don't even notice it when Mom and Bella emerge from some previously unseen corner to stand, silent and still, and listen.

I do sing it twice, and it's possible I'd have even gone into a third round if somewhere a door hadn't slammed, drawing me out of my semi-reverie with a jump.

I am suddenly conscious of the hush in the room, and with flaming cheeks I mutter something to Fiona and hurry to the protective shelter of my mother, who looks at me quite differently than usual.

"Sydney," she says, her voice strained, "that was very . . . moving."

I flush.

"Mom, it was only-"

"No." she cuts me off with a shake of her head. "No. It wasn't. It wasn't 'only' anything. It was much more than that."

I have never handled any situation like this very well, so after only a moment's hesitation, I am surprised to find I have hit on the right answer.

"I wasn't performing," I say evenly, and a smile finds its way to her face as she nods.

"I know you weren't, Sydney. That was sung far too intimately for it to have passed for anything like a performance. You're going to do a beautiful job out there tonight- both of you," she adds, patting Bella's shoulder reassuringly. I notice the shawl has appeared on her head, and her expression is ever-so-slightly more placid than before.

"Now," her expression becomes a tad more grim, "if I could only find my own crew, we'd be all set to go."

As it turns out, Mom's crew keeps her guessing right down to the wire. One doesn't show up until two minutes before we're supposed to make our entrance, and I think that if she were not in such demand for last-minute dialogue checks and the like, Mom would gladly have throttled the poor kid then and there.

As it is, she merely glares daggers at him, and practically shoves his costume down his throat.

"Put it on," she barks, "and if we're late going out there because . . ." she trails off, shaking her head. "Just put it on."

"Mrs. Bristow?" a smaller girl approaches Mom. "Mrs. Bristow, my scarf isn't tying properly."

"Yes, I see, that." Mom tugs at the uncooperative accessory, scowling, and as she does a little boy nears as well, and pulls hesitantly on her sleeve.

"Mrs. Bristow, my beard keeps falling off."

"Mrs. Bristow," from across the room, "I can't find my hat."

"Mrs. Bristow, my shoes are two different sizes."

"Have you seen my doll, Mrs. Bristow?"

"Mrs. Bristow . . ."

Mom shoots me a glance fraught with desperation, and rasps,

"Well, don't just stand there, Sydney- make yourself useful!"

I leap to obey, first tackling the boy with the runaway facial hair. Once that problem is solved I struggle to locate the wayward doll and hat, and in the process also stumble across the mates to both mis-sized shoes.

Unfortunately one of the two is stuck under the book shelf, and in my haste to retrieve it I forget to be careful of my already strained seams. The sound of cloth ripping echoes through the rooms, and anybody in an even semi-bent over position immediately shoots upright, groping at clothing in a panic.

It is my own dress, though, that is sporting an impressive laceration up the side, and with a groan of dismay I sit back to pass the shoes to their respective owners and gauge the full extent of the damage.

It could, I decide, be worse- it could also be better. I'd have preferred a rip nearer the hemline, but as it is, I now have an awkwardly-placed vent at my (entirely too generous) hip, nothing with which to repair it, and no time to repair it in.

"Mom!" I holler. "Mom, get over here!"

"Don't raise your voice, Sydney, they'll hear you in the audience." She hurries over, kneeling to assess the circumstances for herself.

"Hmm . . . you know, I think with a little duct tape . . ."

"Mom, this is not the Red Green Show, this is a Christmas Cantata."

"Yes, dear, I know. But I haven't a needle or thread with me, and as I see it, the only other option-"

"You need a needle?" Barb trots forward, a tiny sewing kit in hand. "What size? I have several here- oh, and you'll want thread, too, I take it- I have some black right here, if you like."

I thank her profusely, and hold my breath until I'm blue to give Mom time to quickly gather the seams and baste them back together.

"It should hold," she mutters, ripping the thread savagely before passing the equipment back to the lender with a gracious smile of thanks. "At least until we can get a coat on you, although you'll likely be even more noticeable one we do- why in the world did you insist on wearing that huge blue thing instead of a nice, sedate-"

"Mom, now is not the time, okay?" I don't have the desire or the time to explain that my "nice, sedate" dress coat now makes it impractical for me to breathe with all the buttons done up. "If we could just get going . . ."

"Of course," she nods, getting to her feet and extending a hand, which I make cautious use of. "Now, where is my group?"

They have assembled themselves against the far wall, and as she moves to make sure that they are indeed ready, I hunt out Fiona, and enquire as to order.

"We're near the end," she reminds me. "First the introduction, then the hymns, then the choir enters. They do about half the production before your mother's group performs, then more singing, then the youngest kids. Then- us."

Her glance as she says 'us' moves to include Bella, into whose arms a much-transformed Emily has recently been deposited. My little girl's red velvet holiday dress has been stripped off in place of a white one-piece undershirt and a thick, raggedy brown blanket. She twists and squirms, a most perturbed expression on her face.

"Mama," she begs petulantly, putting out her hands, and I laugh, shaking my head.

"Imagine if you had to wear it all the time," I admonish her tartly, bending to give her a kiss. "Just think of how it would feel to you then, my little miss!"

She doesn't deign to do so, instead electing to give such an energetic wrench that Bella is nearly startled into dropping her.

"She'll fall asleep soon enough," I reassure her. "She's had her dinner, and she usually goes soon after that, so by the time we get up on stage she should be out like a light."

Bella nods uncertainly, and I can't say I blame her for looking so dubious, since Emily is still writhing and pouting for all she's worth. But I know my daughter's internal clock all too well, and this is why I am not in the least surprised with what happens. No sooner have we seated ourselves in the pews marked 'reserved' than does Emily suddenly slump against Bella's chest, her thumb ensconced in her mouth, eyes fluttering shut, and fall fast asleep.

Bella eyes her with something much like amazement.

"Wow."

I laugh.

"Yeah, she's funny that way . . . it's like she's on a timer. She wakes up easily, I'm afraid - she gets that from me - but she falls as easily, so it evens out."

Bella nods, and carefully shifts my daughter into amore recumbent position in her arms, arranging the blanket so it better covers her while she slumbers.

"Will she wake up when I go on stage?" she wonders, and I nod.

"Probably, but only for a second or two. If she's comfortable, and warm, and she knows nothing's wrong, it's very likely she'll go right back to sleep again."

Bella looks relieved, and together we settle back to watch.

Dad's solo is near the beginning, and as usual, I thrill to the sound of his voice. He's no baritone, but his tones are rich, clear, and he sings as if he and the music were having an affair. I once asked Mom if she was jealous of Dad's songs, and with an arch of her eyebrow she had asked if I knew something she didn't, which I took to mean no, she wasn't.

Now, though, it's almost impossible for me to see how she couldn't be. His tongue is practically caressing the words as they emerge from his mouth, and _O Come, O Come, Emmanuel_ has never sounded so longing as it does tonight, when he sings it.

It's as if the whole lot of us fall under the melodic spell of the words and his tone as he utters them - no, croons would be more appropriate - and when the music at last dies down, there is absolute silence in the sanctuary. It remains as he steps back to join the ranks of fellow choristers, and indeed remains right until the next song.

It - the song - is something that I know that I won't be able to remember tomorrow. As it is, I can barely hear the words. I hear Mom sigh longingly beside me, and I glance over to see her cheeks are wet with tears.

"That man . . ." she shakes her head, a catch to her voice. "He sure does have a way with words, doesn't he, Sydney?"

And, smiling, I have to agree that he does.

***

By the time Mom's kids are due to appear, she has dried her eyes, patted herself back into presentability and is smiling brilliantly as she gestures them onto the stage.

It's a charming skit, and I very much enjoy watching it. Mom has somehow managed to take a group of late-elementary school students, and turn them into an honest-to-goodness cast and crew. When at last they are done they take their bows with perfect gravity, and not a single mischievous gesture among them, leaving me to marvel that while Dad may have a way with words, my mother has a way with just about everything else.

"That was incredible!" I tell her the second she shepherds the group back to their seats. "That was just amazing! How did you get them to do that?!"

"A tasteful combination of bribery and blackmail," she twinkles at me, then shakes her head, smiling. "No, really I just worked them into the ground and they responded. They're really very talented- they just need somebody who can bring out the best in them, and this year, it just so happened that I volunteered to give it my best shot."

"Well, I think you should volunteer every year!" I marvel. "That was- wow! That was just incredible!"

She laughs and thanks me, and then her eyes drift to a sight over my shoulder that makes her smile, and nudge me.

Turning, I follow her gaze to where Bella is cradling my dozing daughter to her chest and is crooning softly to her, eyes dreamy and expression serene.

"She looks entirely too comfortable," Mom chuckles softly. "My word, that child's a natural- you'd think she'd had children for years before now."

I nod, remembering myself in contrast. For weeks I had held Emily as if she were something made of spun glass that I was mortally terrified to break by so much as breathing on her the wrong way, and Mike had treated her as such for longer still. Curious, I put a question to Mom.

"How were you when I was born?"

"Unconscious, or close to it," she says promptly, and I have to grin before rephrasing the question.

"No, I guess I meant after I was born. Holding me, and just . . . being a mom."

Mom's face softens, and she shakes her head ruefully.

"I was a basket case for all of five minutes. Then you just- you opened your eyes, and looked at me, and I decided that whatever I had to do I'd figure it out as we went along. When you're holding a human being in your hands that you actually helped create, there's this feeling of . . . of being able to take the world on single-handed."

I nod, remembering.

"Yeah . . . there is."

My hands stray to my yesterday-it-was-flat-and-now-look-at-it! stomach, and I rest them there gently in consideration.

"I wonder . . . what this one will be like."

Mom glances at me.

"Sydney, you're still finding out what the first one is like! I think you can wait just a few months more to meet the next one, don't you think?"

I laugh, and nod.

"Of course I can wait. I was just thinking . . . oh, sorry, Mom, it's us now."

And, so saying, I get to my feet and follow Bella and Emily towards the stage.

Bella takes up residence in front of the manger, expression nearly beatific as she settles Emily in her arms, rearranging the blanket just one or two degrees. Fiona, who has been settled down at the piano for the entire night, gives me a cheery grin and a nod as I take the mike, and look out at the darkened crowd that sits before me.

I barely notice when the music starts this time. My attention, as per the questions asked in the song, is focused entirely on the young woman, barely more than a girl herself, whose attention is fixated solely on the little person she cradles to her breast as if it were the first - the only - baby in the world.

I know that feeling- I felt it myself, the first time I was holding her.

Then the words are there, in my mouth, and coming out and I barely even notice what I'm saying because it seems the most natural thing in the world to ask, as if I were just putting a question to music, and nothing more.

__

Mary did you know that your baby boy

Would one day walk on water?

Did you know that your baby boy

Would save our sons and daughters?

She doesn't answer, of course- she isn't supposed to. It's a rhetorical question, in a sense . . . and yet, in a sense, it isn't. The words keep coming, and I listen to them as if they came from somebody else's mouth, and were myself expected to answer.

__

Did you know that your baby boy

Had come to make you new?

That this child you delivered

Would soon deliver you?

When the music is finally done, as there was before in the choir room there is dead silence. Bella looks close to tears, Mom has moved beyond 'close' and is weeping openly, and I find myself unable to see if Fiona is crying as well because I'm so close to it myself that it's all I can do see where I'm going to get off the stage before I, too, feel tears wet my cheeks.

And I feel oddly disinclined to blame hormones.

"That was amazing, darling," Mom sniffles, once the next song has begun. "That was simply amazing. I can't tell you how- tissue?"

I accept and put it to good use as after the candle-lighting ceremony the program wraps up, and the lights come back on once again.

"Now," she says, with one final swipe at her cheeks as I reach to collect Emily, "let's meet up with your father, and that husband of yours, and see what they have to say."

***

They have a fair bit to say, but then, so does everybody else there that night. It's kind of a tradition in our church once any celebration is over- talk lots, and eat more.

And it's one that most of the people - the kids especially - find more than acceptable, but also one that can, on occasion, lead to certain problems.

At first, though, everything is just deliciously chaotic. Food is carried out, people start to chatter over top of it, and kids thread their way underfoot, sometimes getting stepped on, sometimes doing the stepping on themselves. A few people float over to form a sort of circle around Mom, Dad, Mike, Emily and I and talk with us.

Mike talks hockey with Tom; Dad and Dan discuss singing teachers and the disadvantages of enrolling your children in voice lessons; Emily naps, and Mom, Barb, Faye and I swap labour horror stories.

"Andrew took seventeen hours!" Barb says grimly. "Seventeen hours, and no way was I putting myself through that again! We had the one, and he was a boy, so Robert was satisfied, and that's how we left it."

"My water wouldn't break," Faye growls at the memory. "And the doctor advised me to either walk it broken, or he was sending me home, and there wasn't a chance I was going back home, so of course we walked. And then it breaks in the middle of the hospital, and I'm there, wet, and was there an elevator, or even a wheelchair in sight? And of course, not a nurse to be found, and we had no idea how to get back to obstetrics . . . small wonder Ryan was our last!"

"They were still sometimes using ether when Sydney was born," Mom puts in with a grim little smile. "And I refused all painkillers, so they ended up using it on me."

"I don't understand," Barb frowns, so Mom elaborates.

"Well, I refused everything they offered me, you see. And Jack was a darling - he always has been - and was right there, holding my hand, the whole way. Only when the pains started getting more intense, I- well, I adjusted my grip to match."

She manages to blush gracefully, but Dad's dry interjection negates the effect:

"She was crushing my hand. Literally. You could hear the bones snapping."

"Okay, Jack, tell you what- you deliver one, and then come looking for sympathy."

"Laura, that was painful!"

"And what do you think fifteen and a half hours of what I went through was?! It didn't tickle, Jack!"

"But this doesn't explain the ether," Barb frowns, and I nod, taking up the story.

"It does, actually- she just kept squeezing tighter and tighter, so finally they gassed her to get her to let go. Then they took Dad to set his hand, and finished up with me."

"I came back just as she was born," Dad recalls, and Mom nods.

"And I came to just as they passed her to us . . . it was one of the most . . . intense moments of my life, I think."

I laugh.

"That's because you missed mine!"

"Oh, yes, that was interesting," Faye's eyes dance in recollection, and Mom looks askance at me.

"Sydney?"

I roll my eyes.

"It was an experience, all right. I just-"

Before I can start, however, I am interrupted by a violent crash and the sound of breaking glass and multiple screams, one of which belongs to my daughter, who awakes at the sound and panics.

Spinning, Mom pushes both of us back, toward Dad, but before he can snatch us up bodily and cart us out to the car we see what the problem is- one of the tables, old and overloaded with plenty of nourishment, collapsed on top of one of Mom's little actors.

"Is he okay?" I worry, and a shrieking but unbruised little boy is hauled from under the wreckage with affirmation and scolding.

"He's fine," Mom nods, relieved. "That had me scared for a second- good heavens, Sydney, shouldn't she breathe soon?"

This last is in reference to Emily, still involved in the process of delivering her initial screech. She turns purple before it finally occurs to her to take a deep, ragged breath and then start howling all over again.

I shake my head, grimacing.

"She won't stop- not here, anyway,. We had better head home before we ruin anybody else's evening."

This is agreed upon, and, taking our bawling baby, we hurry to the coat rack, and then out to the waiting car.

"It's freezing in here!" I yelp, trying to settle onto the icy seats. "Where's the heat?!"

"Warming up," Mike grins, starting the engine with some difficulty. "Brr, it's going to be a cold one tomorrow."

"It's a cold one now, Michael," Mom complains, smoothing her coat as far under her as she can. "Are you implying that it's only going to get worse?"

Mike, pulling out into - nonexistent - traffic was quick to reassure her that he was implying no such thing; that he was only commenting on how cold it was, and speculating that the following day could very well be just as cold, if not colder.

Mom seems relatively pacified, but shivers the whole way home all the same, and when we get inside goes straight to help Mike build a fire in the fireplace.

This leaves Dad and me to take Emily upstairs to the nursery, where she stays awake only long enough to be changed into her sleeper before settling back to sleep in her crib.

We stand together for a second, just watching her, and at last I speak.

"She looks very . . . peaceful, doesn't she?"

"She does," Dad agrees quietly.

"Like-" I hesitate, searching for the right words. "Like she hasn't got anything to worry about."

"Yes," Dad nods, sobering almost imperceptibly, "that is what she looks like."

I study her soft little profile for a minute longer before shaking my head.

"I envy her."

He looks over at me, expression grave.

"Sydney," he says gently, "what is it? Something's been bothering you for quite some time now- ever since I brought your mother home, you've been different. Is there something I should know about?"

I chew on my bottom lip, watching my daughter as I do so. She looks so innocent . . . the thought that one of my mistakes could very well endanger her life is enough to make me physically ill.

Dad, watching, knows full well that something is going on but doesn't push me to talk about it. He knows better than that- push me, and I'll only dig in my heels.

Still, I know it's hard for him to not say anything. He loves me very much- all of us, of course, but he's got a special spot in his heart for each of us, and mine just happens to be in the overprotective area. Knowing that something is bothering me, but not knowing what it is, or if there's anything he can do about it, is eating him up inside.

I sigh.

"Daddy . . ."

"Yes?"

Too fast. He knows it the second it's out of his mouth. I cringe. If I were to tell him, he would freak. I know he would. There's no possible way I can tell him- not yet, anyway.

"I'm a big girl," I smile at him. "Really. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, and though I think it's sweet you're so worried about me, I wish you wouldn't."

Dad shrugs helplessly.

"Easier said than done, Sweetheart. Now that you're a parent yourself, I think you really know that."

I nod.

"I do, Daddy, I just wish . . . I wish you wouldn't make it so hard on yourself."

He shakes his head, smiling, and pulls me to him, holding me tightly for a long time.

"I know you do," he murmurs at last. "I know you do, and I appreciate it. But old habits die hard, so if it's all the same to you, my love, I think I'll just have to keep at it."

I nod, smiling.

"Fine, Dad. Fine. Now, how about coming downstairs and having another cup of cider before you head home?"

Dad, though, admits that he and Mom might have to take a rain check.

"We aren't as young as we used to be," he twinkles. "We need our sleep."

I express doubt that they'll be doing much sleeping, which amuses him so greatly that upon our return to the ground floor he relates my not-so-subtle accusation to my mother.

She, seated in front of the fire with Archie spilling out of her lap, roars with delighted laughter, rocking back and forth as best as one can with a Great Dane/Lab cross weighting you down.

"She knows us too well!" she carols, digging her elbows into the sides of our reluctant animal off so she can get to her feet. "Far too well . . . Ugh, give me a hand here, will you, Jack?"

Dad does, hauling at Archie with all his might. Archie is mightily reluctant to give in but the combination of both my parents proves too great a force for him to resist, and he ends up sprawled in an ungainly heap on the floor, looking sorry to see my mother go.

"I'll be back tomorrow, lovey," she tells him, patting his head and fondling the silky propeller ears, causing his tail to beat the ground in a frantic tattoo of delight. "Yes, issums a good boy? Oooh, yessums is! A _very_ good boy, he is! Say nighty-night to Nana 'Rina, there's a goooood doggie . . ."

At her none-too-subtle invitation, Archie is only too thrilled to slobber all over her chin, much to her delight. Dad, oblivious to the rolling of my eyes, kneels to down to receive like treatment.

"Such a good dog!" he enthuses, thumping him soundly on the ribcage. "Yes, he's _such_ a good dog!"

This goes on for such a while that, by the time they've finished saying good bye to Archie, Donovan has wandered off to secure a spot on the bed, I'm leaning against my husband struggling to prop my eyes open, Mike has begun to grow tomorrow's stubble, and Francie has started her winter hibernation.

When they finally do get to their feet Archie does, too, and follows them to the door. Mike and I say our good byes from a distance since my parents not only still smell like doggy breath but are still rather damp with saliva, and with promises to pop over first thing in the morning, they take their leave.

We make sure they get safely on their way before locking up for the night, and starting for the stairs. Mike, though, stops me, and points to our dog, who has his nose wedged against the door.

"Can't he come upstairs?" he asks plaintively, sounding very much like a little kid. Just for tonight? It's Christmas Eve, honey."

"Yes, Michael, I know it's Christmas Eve. And having no desire to spend all of Christmas Day putting things back where they belong, I do not have any desire to-"

"Syd, come on," he cuts in. "Look at him!"

Archie's head is drooping, now, and he whines mournfully at the door. I feel myself caving.

"I still don't think . . ."

"Tell you what- he makes a mess, I'll be the one to clean it up."

The man knows my weaknesses far too well.

I relent, and Archie joins Donovan at the foot of our bed until about three thirty in the morning when he rolls over, knocks Mike to the floor, and spends the rest of the night snoozing sweetly with his head on my husband's pillow while Mike slumbers away on the rug by the bed.

I tell you, that man can sleep through anything.

***

***

Well, I hope I didn't give anybody a heart attack with such a sudden update! I started writing this, and it just took off on me. I have a feeling the next ones will be a bit easier to write because Syd's pregnancy is now getting to the point where it will give me more ammunition, so to speak, with which to write.

Thanks again and again to everybody for all your patience and reviews, and as ever, Stacey, the pokes are often needed and greatly appreciated- though I think tonight was the first pre-emptive poke I ever got! But no less appreciated, of course- keep them coming!

Now keep reading, everybody! And please, enjoy, and tell me all about it!


	12. Chapter Eleven

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Pregnancy Syd is incredibly fun to write, and Irina is even more so as the mother who's been there, but even they are not able to drive away the horror that is mountains of schoolwork. A hearty thank you goes out to everybody who's asked about this, and an even bigger one goes to my poker-in-residence Stacey, whose fingers are getting so tired I'm sure she's soon gonna have to resort to kicking. Since I'm looking forward to that even less than she is, I'm typing double time to make sure such a course of action is unnecessary.

Speaking of action, somebody asked when you'd get to see some. Soon, I promise! Just bear with me- give me this chap, and then maybe one or two more, to lead up to what I have planned, okay? I promise, you will get to see some action - or at least, as much action as I am able to write without ruining it - before very long. It _is_ Alias, after all, right?!

Thank you again everybody- everything you've said has meant such a lot and I appreciate it.

***

*** 

We make sure they get safely on their way before locking up for the night, and starting for the stairs. Mike, though, stops me, and points to our dog, who has his nose wedged against the door.

"Can't he come upstairs?" he asks plaintively, sounding very much like a little kid. Just for tonight? It's Christmas Eve, honey."

"Yes, Michael, I know it's Christmas Eve. And having no desire to spend all of Christmas Day putting things back where they belong, I do not have any desire to-"

"Syd, come on," he cuts in. "Look at him!"

Archie's head is drooping, now, and he whines mournfully at the door. I feel myself caving.

"I still don't think . . ."

"Tell you what- he makes a mess, I'll be the one to clean it up."

The man knows my weaknesses far too well.

I relent, and Archie joins Donovan at the foot of our bed until about three thirty in the morning when he rolls over, knocks Mike to the floor, and spends the rest of the night snoozing sweetly with his head on my husband's pillow while Mike slumbers away on the rug by the bed.

I tell you, that man can sleep through anything.

***

Okay, almost anything- even Mike can't sleep through Christmas. At least, not Christmas the way _we_ celebrate it.

At six o'clock sharp the alarm I set out of sheer force of habit went off, rudely awakening me from a peaceful sleep. There came startled snorts both from the dogs lying on the bed and the man lying on the floor beside it as I stumbled from under the blankets to slap the snooze button in disgust.

"What kind of idiot am I, anyway?" I wonder, creeping back into bed as Mike's head appears beside it, his expression clearly bemused. "Setting the alarm on Christmas Eve . . ."

"Good morning, sweetheart," Mike slurs, and I wave my hand at him in irritation.

"Morning."

"What am I doing on the floor?"

"Archie kicked you there last night."

"And I didn't wake up?"

"Do you ever?"

He ponders this.

"Good point . . ."

"Mmm," I nod, snuggling my pillow. "Now, shove Archie over, and get in here with me. You must be freezing out there."

Mike admits that his toes are rather chilly, so with my help he relocates Archie to the foot of the bed where Donovan is still snorting away, deep in doggie dreamland, and climbs in beside me. It is now that I learn the hard way that he was telling the truth- his toes are very, very _cold_!

As I shriek and attempt to evade them he starts to laugh, and gets swatted for having a sense of humour.

"How could you sleep down there?!" I demand to know, tucking the covers in around me to avoid making contact with him again. "It's a miracle you didn't die of hypothermia, Michael!"

"I'm tough," he shrugs. "And hey- I'm Canadian! We wear our long johns to bed!"

"But no socks, I see," I scowl, huddling up in my little cocoon. "And so help me, if you don't wear them tonight, I promise you I'm going to-"

I am interrupted, though, by inquisitive babbles filtering into out room via the baby monitor on my bureau. Emily is awake, and wants to know if we are as well.

"I'll get her," Mike offers, already standing up. "You stay here and recover from my feet, okay?"

I am not about to decline such a generous offer, and nod, burrowing back down into the security of flannel and eiderdown as he leaves me to my own devices.

With this kind of time on my hands I elect to study the bedroom that has been ours for going on six years now, remembering the changes we effected when we first moved it.

Upon our arrival, the walls had been painted a glaring crimson that necessitated the use of wearing sunglasses if you planned to get a decent night's sleep - not that a newlywed couple really does, but that's beside the point. They had been the first thing we fixed, introducing off white, forest green and a tartan-pattern border, creating a much more sedate, rich atmosphere far more conducive to sleep. Yeah . . . sleep . . .

The furniture suits as well- deep, dark woods that have acquired a patina with age, the sleigh bed, night tables, bureau, vanity and dressers all matching, blending into the room just like good appliances should. The blankets are thick and soft, the mattress firm, warm and supportive, and I feel myself slipping back into the deep pillows and the remnants of unconsciousness that lingered on the fuzzier edges of my brain just as my husband materializes in the doorway, our joint creation in his arms.

She's wearing the holly berry red sleeper we tucked her into the night before, translucent angel-hair mussed, eyes bleary with sleep and smile sunny with the promise of a new day.

"Mama," she gurgles, reaching for me so suddenly and insistently that her father, through no fault of his own, nearly drops her before the two of them can reach the bed.

"Careful, sweetness!" I laugh, reaching out to take the warm, solid little body into my arms. "Guh, kid, you're getting heavy! What are we eating, anyway, angel? All this Christmas baking catching up with our hips, is it?"

She gurgles, sucking on her fist, and tilting her head to watch my lips move.

"Mama goh need pah," she informs me quite seriously, and I nod, as if Baby Latin were one of the twelve languages I spoke.

"Oh, indeed. I couldn't agree more. A nice, long walk tonight with Daddy, Grandma, Grandpa and the dogs is just what we need. Of course, you'll be in the stroller, so it won't benefit you quite as much as it will the rest of us, but at least you'll be there, right?"

Emily babbles in grave affirmative, and I nod.

"Right you are, then. And how's Daddy this morning?" I reach up and tug him down to join us so Emily can transfer her attentions to his face, her chubby little fingers poking him experimentally, seeing which jab provokes the most entertaining response.

Daddy confesses to a slight twinge in his shoulder, no doubt brought on by spending the night with nothing but a thin sheepskin rug to insulate him from the floorboards, but reassures us that he is otherwise quite fine, and definitely up to the challenge of hosting the day ahead.

"Good," I decide, leaning back against the pillows. "Because you have no idea how _not_ ready I am. I just want to be alone in swollen misery."

To accent my words, I display to him the stomach that caused me such problems the night before, and his eyes twinkle.

"Well, we can't have that . . . give me a minute, all right, sweetheart? I'll be right back."

He takes off, leaving Emily and me to watch after him in bewilderment.

"Do you know where he's off to?" I wonder, and she gurgles a negative. "Hmm . . ."

While we wait, I try to get Emily to play pat-a-cake with me, and meet with moderate success. She caught onto the concept quite quickly the week before, when Mom taught her, and it's been the new household favourite ever since. We're on our fourth round by the time he gets back, flushed and triumphant.

"Pat it, and roll it, and mark it with a- oh, look, here's Daddy!"

Emily looks up, beams at Daddy, and then pats my hand in a gentle reminder that we are, after all, occupied, here. Instead of continuing with our game, though, I pull her into my lap, turning to face Mike and the large box he holds.

"What's that?"

"Something I think you forgot about," he smiles, bringing it over. "I had quite a time finding it, but I think- well, take a look."

I obey, shuffling Emily to one side to scoot forward and peer into the depths of the cardboard box, where I see neatly folded piles of-

"Clothes?"

"Yeah," he grins. "Your clothes. From when you were carrying Emily."

My eyes widen.

"I thought I gave these away! I was sure I did!"

"You did," he laughs. "I stormed the Estabrooks' house and begged for them back. I mean, it isn't like she needs them any more, now that she's had the twins . . . they were more than happy to give them back."

I shake my head in delight, pawing through garments that served me well the winter before.

"This is just fantastic, Mike, you have no idea . . . I won't have to buy anything new until spring!" I hold up a top, and smile at him over the neckline.

"Thank you."

He gets a very nice kiss for that, and Emily offers her open mouth smack as well when invited to give Daddy kisses. Then I start rooting through the treasure trove placed before me, sighing with delight at the appearance of loose-waisted and/or subtly-flared pants and shirts. It's a glorious cavalcade of things that will offer me maximum comfort as well as a modicum of style- I still cringe at the sight of my mother's maternity clothes in the pictures when she was expecting me.

"Now, why don't you pick an outfit," he suggests, "have a nice bath, get yourself all dressed and come downstairs? I should have breakfast ready by then."

It sounds like a plan to me, and I tell him so, then set about preparing for a thorough relaxation. I've barely even started to soak, though, when a knock sounds on the door, and Mike addresses me, tone apologetic.

"Phone, sweetheart."

"But I'm just-"

"I know, Syd, but it's your mom. And- well, she's very determined."

"Isn't she always?"

"Very, Sydney."

I sigh.

"Fine. I'm coming."

I do, but I do so in poor humour, and am still grumbling as, still damp, wearing nothing but a terrycloth robe and bedroom slippers, I snatch the phone by our bed off the hook and ask tersely,

"Yes?"

"Sydney! Merry Christmas, sweetheart!"

"Mom, I'm soaking wet, so I hope you aren't calling just to wish me the best of the season."

"You weren't cooking, were you?!"

"No! I was in the bathtub! But what do you care if I am cooking or-"

"Sydney, you shouldn't be cooking. You're pregnant! You need to rest!"

"Mom, I'm barely showing. I hardly think-"

"He or she is still very much in there, sweetie, and already is taking a lot out of you. I want you to promise me you'll take it easy. Which actually brings me to what I was calling about."

I am instantly apprehensive.

"What?"

"Well," she sounds so studiedly innocent that I prepare to panic with a vengeance. "I was just browsing through some of my old recipe books, and I-"

"Mom, NO. You're already doing more than your share and I won't allow-"

"But Sydney, just hear me out! I came across a little magazine clipping I thought I might like to try, and it-"

"It's not going to happen, Mom!"

"But darling, you must be so tired!"

Wheedling. How often does my mother _wheedle_, I'd like to know?

"I am NOT tired. I got a good night's sleep last night, and I am quite prepared to handle-"

"Sydney, couldn't I possibly-"

"NO, Mom."

"But darling, it's such a _simple_ recipe! I could have it done in seconds!"

"I don't care!"

"Oh, really now, how do you think that makes your mother feel? Let me do this, darling, please! A lovely cake- angel food. Cut in layers with peppermint ice cream in between and on top, and crushed peppermint patties and crème de menthe and grenadine . . . a real holiday-looking cake, Sweetheart, you really should see the picture."

"Mom, I don't want to see the picture. I want you to forget about the whole-"

"Sydney," petulantly, "I'm bored."

"And I'm sure that will make Dad feel-"

"Oh, Sydney, _please_? Can't I please just throw together this one extra little thing? It would be such a relief to me, knowing it was one less thing you had to do. Won't you please let me? _Please_?"

I feel myself weakening.

"I don't think-"

"Just the one, Sydney, I promise you!"

"Well . . . just the one?"

"Just the one," she repeats firmly. "Only the one."

I waver, then relent.

"Fine. The one. ONLY the one."

"Only the one," she echoes sweetly, and then sends a thrill of apprehension through me as, just nanoseconds before hanging up, she amends, "at least for this year . . ."

Sometimes, I just have to wonder who's the parent and who's the child in this relationship.

***

Breakfast is a delightful affair, followed closely by our own little stocking ceremony in the family room.

Emily is amused at the sight of us pulling brightly-coloured toys from a large sock and passing them to her, and is quite thrilled when it becomes apparent that she will be permitted to keep them. After we have had our fill of watching her examine them we take her upstairs to be changed and dressed, and then set her on the bed while we prepare each other for the day.

"I think you should wear this one," I decide at length, holding out a sweater for him. "And I'm either going to wear the black dress or the black pants with that sweater and- watch her, Mike, she's gonna eat that!"

He swoops to pry his watch from Emily's grip and, rather than return it to the night table where it had been housed before, slid it onto his wrist and snapped the catch in place. Then he consented to wear the cardigan I was holding out, and as he dressed I did as well, relishing in my newfound ability to actually button up my pants once again.

The sweater was next, and then as I brushed my hair out Mike played peek-a-boo with Emily until she was about to pass out from lack of oxygen, she was laughing so hard.

"She'll be worn out before the day even begins!" I chide him, scooping up my purple daughter, her cheeks now clashing violently with her red jumper. "And then she'll sleep too long, and be up all night, and if you think I'm gonna be the one who's up with her, buddy, you are sorely mistake-"

"Okay, okay!" he laughs, silencing me by sealing my lips with his own. "I'll let her have a break. Now, how about we head downstairs? Your parents will be getting here any minute to help set up for the day."

"Oh, joy," I sigh. "That means I'll be banished to a chair in the corner and told to sit there and not exert myself. Just how I want to spend my Christmas morning."

Mike only laughs, propelling our child and me out the door and downstairs as he does.

"If I had my way," he twinkles, "you'd be on that chair twenty four seven until the baby was born. You always push yourself, Syd- you know you do."

"But never too far," I remind him, and he has to agree to this.

"No, never too far. Just far enough to make me worry myself grey, is all. Grey, and then back again . . . but never too far."

If I detect a hint of sarcasm, I am too much of a lady to comment. Besides, it's Christmas- peace on Earth, and good will toward all men. Even quasi-sarcastic husbands.

So I occupy myself by putting the vegetables on to cook before Mom can show up and take over on that, too. Then, just as I'm finishing with the dials on the stove, the front door flies open and in hurry Mom and Dad. They have barely taken two steps before they run straight into Archie, who expresses his joy at seeing them again by jumping up and knocking about ten parcels to the floor, two of which make suspicious tinkling noises upon impact.

"No!" I howl. "No, bad dog!"

"Aw, he didn't mean anything by it, sweetie!" Dad is already down on his knees (not that it was necessary- Archie could reach his face quite easily just by standing on his hind legs) inviting a face wash.

"He's a good dog," Mom observes, smiling, and then hurries into the kitchen to make sure I haven't been trying to whip up a ten course dinner.

"Here's the cake," she passes a plastic container to me. "Freezer, immediately. And then you sit down, and I'll do the rest."

I sigh, putting the cake away in the freezer before sinking into a chair, knowing resistance is futile. In the hallway Dad has moved on from the dogs to greet his delighted granddaughter, who pats his cheeks and coos happily at him as he makes faces at her and babbles right back, and Mike is busy hanging up coats.

In spite of myself, I start to smile.

"Know what?" I say aloud, and Mom glances over at me, curious.

"No. What?"

"Well . . . things could have been a lot worse."

She tilts her head, intrigued, as she lays out a turnip bake, Jell-O salad, macaroni salad and a batch of rolls on the table. I gape at them in unabashed amazement.

"Mom, where did you find the time to make all of-"

"I have my ways, sweetheart, Now, what do you mean, things could be worse?"

"I only hope your ways don't involve staying up until three am to get all of that done, and I meant- well, it could, right? In the grand scheme of things, everything could have been about a hundred thousand times worse. I mean, you could have turned out to be a sadistic killer, Dad could have stayed emotionally bereft for the remainder of his life, Mike could have died back in Taipei, and . . . well, I could have worked for SD-6 indefinitely, never knowing what I was doing. It could have been a lot worse. But instead . . . here we are. All of us. And . . . I consider it my chief blessing to be here, like this."

Mom smiles, depositing the salads in the fridge and comes to seat herself across from me.

"Well," she points out, "technically, I was a sadistic killer. And your father, though not emotionally bereft, still has some control issues to relinquish . . . but Mike is alive, you are here, and Emily . . . Emily is a promise that it's only going to get better. So is this one, here," she reaches out to poke my stomach. In doing so, she sees that the sweater I'm wearing is a "new" one, and hangs almost loosely on my frame, and her eyebrows arch.

"Maternity, sweetie?"

I nod, grinning, and a smile spreads across her own face as well.

"I loved that feeling," she sighs. "It made me feel . . . well, like I was really pregnant."

I nod, rolling up the sweater to examine the tiny curve that is my new baby.

"I know what you mean . . . makes you feel all special, doesn't it?"

Mom nods, taking my hand in her own and squeezing it.

"It does," she says. "It really does."

She might have said more, too, but for the knock at the front door that signals the arrival of the first of many guests. Dad is opening it as we make our way into the front hall, admitting a well-bundled couple and their equally well-bundled little boy.

"Fiona! Merry Christmas! Let me take that casserole off your hands," Mom beams, gliding forward before I can reach out for the dish. "Jack, can you get their coats? And Sydney," threateningly, "go sit down. Now."

I am not so foolish that I would argue with my mother when she uses that tone of voice, so I nod in defeat, and lead them into the living room where I am just in time to chase Archie away from the lower branches of the Christmas tree.

"No! Not a snack! Bad dog!"

He ducks his head in shame, and wanders off, no doubt to seek sympathy from less antagonistic quarters. This leaves me to chat with Fiona and Craig while Ben toddles around the room, examining things, and the house steadily fills up with more guests. By the time we're set to start lunch, it's nearly impossible to move, and all the smaller children have been placed on furniture for their own protection, Emily included.

Dinner table chatter is at an all-time furor, so it's a wonder people don't choke, and then we all squeeze into the front room to enjoy each other's company and the off assortment of gifts we exchange each year.

"Just what I needed," Dad groans, holding up a refrigerator magnet headed 'The House Rules'. I reach for it, and read the two lines aloud, amusement thickening my tones.

"'Rule number one, Mom is always right. Rule number two, if Mom is wrong, see rule number one'. Yep," I grin, passing it back amid uproarious laughter, "that about sums it up, I'd say."

"All too succinctly," Dad grumbles, tucking it back into its box. "Entirely too, I'd say. Who's next?"

Mom is, and as the turns go around I content myself to simply watch. Faces that have, over the years, become as familiar to me as my own light up with delight and laughter as they unwrap little treasures, carefully concealed with scraps of brightly coloured paper that will end up in our fireplace by the time the day is out.

Mike catches my eye, sees me smiling, and smiles back.

"It's just perfect, isn't it?" he asks, and I nod.

"It really is," I sigh. "I just . . . I wish it could always be like this."

He nods, knowing I am thinking about Sark.

"Soon it will be, Sydney," he says gently. "Soon, it will be. We'll get Sark, we'll get Sloane. And then . . . then we can relax. It will be over."

The very words send a thrill of delight through me- I don't even dare believe that it's true.

"I can't wait . . ." I sigh, settling my head onto his shoulder and laughing along with the rest of them as Mom unwraps a coffee mug that advises people to refrain from making contact until she's finished its contents. "I really can't wait."

***

While most of our guests manage to find their coats and boots and troop out the door before supper hour, some of them linger to help with the dishes, and as a result end up staying for another meal as well. Among them are my parents, Lisa, Tom, Fiona, Craig and Ben, as well as two older ladies from the church and three students from the University.

"More turnip bake?" Mom enquires perkily, and one by one our rather round-looking guests beg out of the honor.

"I couldn't, Laura, really," Fiona says weakly. "It's delicious - all of it - but I'm just too full to even think about eating anything else. I never eat this much, but everybody did such a terrific job . . . I especially liked those cheese potatoes. Who did those?"

"Claire did, but I managed to get the recipe from her," Mom sounds smug. "I've been trying for the past three months, and she finally caved today."

Dad says he only hopes she doesn't plan on making them any time soon.

"I'm so stuffed myself," he sighs, "that if you put anything else in front of me, I'm liable to throw it out the window."

"Is that a fact?" Mom twinkles. "Then I guess I'll have to eat my cake all by myself."

So saying, she slips away into the kitchen, returning with a multi-layered creation of fluffy, frozen angel food cake, peppermint ice cream, peppermint patties, and drizzled syrups. A collection of rapturous groans arise from all corners of the table, and I find myself reaching out eagerly with my plate.

"Please," I beg when I see Mom's startled look. "I am," I add, "Eating for two, you know."

She smiles at this, and cuts me an especially generous piece. It's light enough that it settles in nicely with everything else I've consumed over the past few hours, and leaves enough room for the tea that Mom produces to accompany the cake. Then, once the dishes have been once more taken care of, our guests beg out of some sit-around time and take their leave, so that only Mike, my parents, Emily and I remain. And, of course, the dogs, who are violently sick on the hallway floor just before Lisa and Tom leave, provoking me to glare at my father and demand,

"Dad, you FED them, didn't you?! I told you, NO PEOPLE FOOD!"

So it is that Mike, Mom and I sit together in the shambles that is the front room, Emily dozing on Mom's shoulder, the dogs at our feet and the cat on the back of the couch, while Dad cleans up what was once part of our holiday feast.

"I told him," I repeat grouchily. "I told him they'd get sick. But did he listen?"

"Does he ever?" Mom asks gently, patting my shoulder with the hand that is not supporting the dead weight of my daughter. "Really, Sydney, it's all right. He's cleaning it up, and it's not like you have carpet anywhere in the house, anyway, is it? It's fine."

Her insistence leads me to relax ever-so-slightly, and admit that I guess she might be right.

"But," I frown, "if I see him feeding them anything but Eukanuba ever again, his fingers are MINE."

Mom promises to think about it, and then gracefully changes the subject.

"Incidentally, I don't suppose you'd let us take them off your hands tomorrow, would you?"

"Who, the dogs?"

"Yes, and Emily as well. You two could use some alone time, and your father and I could use some companionship, so it would really work out for the best, if you'd just give us the lot of them for the day."

I glance over at Mike, whose eyes have taken on much the same appearance of those of a child who has walked into the world' largest toy store.

__

Please, please, please, he's begging, and I smother a giggle before nodding at Mom.

"They're yours. The whole bunch of them. And how you'll handle them AND Dad, I would early love to know . . . or perhaps it's best,, after all, that I not ask."

She admits that the latter is likely the case, and then gets to her feet, calling as she does,

"Darling? You quite done out there?"

His answer is muffled, and best left that way.

"Good, then, I think we'll be going shortly. Emily's already sound asleep, and Sydney and Michael need their rest . . . so do we, if we're going to take the dogs and Emily tomorrow."

"Oh, she said yes, did she?" Dad pokes his head around the doorframe, and Mom replies the affirmative as I stand, and she reluctantly surrenders my daughter back into my arms.

"See you in the morning, Princess," she coos, running a fingertip over a silky soft cheek. Emily stirs, but doesn't wake as we accompany them to the door, admire the cleaning job Dad did on the floor, and see them off.

Emily goes down without a murmur, and Mike stands beside me while we watch the dogs and cat go about their business in the glow of the back porch light.

His hand finds its way onto my shoulder, my hand finds its way onto his, and his chin finds its way onto the back of my hand, and we just stand like that, quiet, together. Finally, almost hesitantly, he speaks, breaking the silence.

"I really love you, you know that?"

I feel myself smile.

"Do you really, now?" I muse, and feel him smile in response.

"I do," he reassures me. "Very, very much. And I love the life I have here with you, and Emily, and your parents . . . It's everything I could have ever asked for, Sydney."

I feel a lump rise in my throat, and, embarrassed, swallow it back.

"I'm glad. I . . . sometimes I worry that everything that's followed us up here might . . . well, might be cause for . . . regrets, on your part. First Cole, and now Sark . . . you don't ever wish that we'd done something differently?"

He tightens his grip on my shoulder to reply in the negative.

"No. Never. This is where I belong, Sydney. this is my life- you, and Emily, and what we have here. If we hadn't come to Sackville . . . who knows what we'd be like now? I don't even want to think about it. I mean . . . God can track you down no matter where you are, of course, but sometimes you do need to be in the right place. And I wouldn't choose to be anywhere else in the world, doing anything different, than being right here, with you, right now."

My breath comes a little faster, and I tilt my head so I can see his face.

"You wouldn't by any chance be trying to score brownie points with me, now, would you, Agent Vaughn?"

He laughs.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort," he reassures me, green eyes twinkling. "But, now that you mention it . . . would it get me anywhere if I was?"

I shake my head, trying not to laugh.

"Don't be so silly, Mike. Why would you need brownie points? You're already in solid with me."

Mike, though, is inclined to display charming insecurity, so I am compelled to tell the dogs to get their butts back inside so I can take Daddy upstairs and prove to him that he really is in solid with me.

Some time later, Mike is reassured, and I am quite contented myself. Just before I drift off to sleep, his hand finds its way onto my arm, and he murmurs in my ear,

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

I smile into the darkness.

"Merry Christmas."

***

***

Yes, I know it's been a while, but hopefully now that drama is done for the year, and we don't have to worry much about marks until exam time rolls around, I'll be able to get another chap up before much time has passed. I repeat, _hopefully_! I do still have something of a life . . . a bit of one, anyway . . . and it seems to be making excessive demands on my time as of late.

Thanks again and again to everybody for all your patience and reviews, and as ever, Stacey, the pokes are often needed and greatly appreciated- and for this chap, I wonder if I ever would have gotten it done if you hadn't been so persistent. Thank you so much for being my sounding board, poker-in-residence and friend. This chap is all yours.

Now please, everybody, keep reading!


	13. Chapter Twelve

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Okay, this is taking forever to get written, unlike its sequel, which is almost done by now. I think it's just all of this end-of-the-year stuff that's coming up to attack me. Money is tight but time is even more so, so it's . . gah. It's messy, anyway.

On the bright side, however, this is nearing completion! So for all you people who are getting a bit antsy waiting for the plot to develop, this is the chap where things start to pick up a bit. Just a bit, mind you, because you won't see any real action until . . well, there's this chap, the next, and then . . . we get some action, hehe. Until then, I hope it doesn't drag on too much for you who are looking for some suspense of some sort, and that you continue to stick with me until I get to the crux of the story.

***

*** 

"You wouldn't by any chance be trying to score brownie points with me, now, would you, Agent Vaughn?"

He laughs.

"I'm doing nothing of the sort," he reassures me, green eyes twinkling. "But, now that you mention it . . . would it get me anywhere if I was?"

I shake my head, trying not to laugh.

"Don't be so silly, Mike. Why would you need brownie points? You're already in solid with me."

Mike, though, is inclined to display charming insecurity, so I am compelled to tell the dogs to get their butts back inside so I can take Daddy upstairs and prove to him that he really is in solid with me.

Some time later, Mike is reassured, and I am quite contented myself. Just before I drift off to sleep, his hand finds its way onto my arm, and he murmurs in my ear,

"Merry Christmas, sweetheart."

I smile into the darkness.

"Merry Christmas."

***

People say that after Christmas, things tend to drag a bit, but I have never found it to be so. Rather, it seems that every waking moment is crammed full of things that need to be packaged, boxed, tucked away, brought out or just generally fixed.

Of course, I'm forbidden to do them - it's a miracle I'm even allowed to drive myself to work - so I have to sit and fume and watch it all pile up until somebody can get around to it. Not my favorite thing to do.

But as the months pass, and my stomach increases steadily in size, I learn to accept that I have been cast the role of the invalid, and am basically on a schedule of sorts. I am allowed to eat, work, and exercise - not too much, of course - and that is about it. Of course, I still take care of Emily, and it has not yet gotten to the point that I've been put under a twenty-four hour watch to make sure I don't break any of my husband or parents' rules, so I do manage one or two escapes every now and then. But after a while, even a liberal prison can get tiring, and I start to feel particularly antsy in late January when a blinding snowstorm strikes without warning, closing all classes and imprisoning us in our homes.

It is at such a time when a hormonal woman can expect to get away with being nasty and still be . . . well . . . even more accommodated than she usually is.

I decided to do so.

"I'm fat," I observe, to nobody in particular.

"No you aren't, darling, you're perfect," Mike replies in the studious monotone that has become his characteristic tone of voice when answering such routine self-depreciating remarks.

I snort.

"Fat," I insist. "Fat, and bloated. Look at me, Mike- I look like a junior Goodyear Blimp!"

He looks.

"No, you don't."

"I do!"

"Sydney, you're barely five months pregnant. You do not look anything like a blimp. You have an adorable little curve in your tummy, barely even noticeable, which makes me love you all the more. You are not fat, so stop saying you are."

I am secretly pleased, but not quite satisfied.

"Really?"

"Really, dear," he nods, and turns a page of the teacher's copy of the math text

"Well, if you're sure . . ."

Mike is.

"Good. I think that-" I am interrupted, however, by a massive crash from the dining room area. Mike jerks to life and lunges for me just in time to prevent me from taking off to throttle the likely culprit.

"He's been cooped up all day, Syd, you can't blame him if he-"

"I certainly can! I can and I will and I tell you, Mike, if he didn't worship the ground Emily rolls on he would be so GONE that it isn't even FUNNY! Do you understand me?! DO you!?"

Mike does.

"But Sydney, he's got such a past. You can't discount that. He's just settling in, is all. And you, of all people, should know how to sympathize with somebody who's a victim of his past, am I right?"

Hang that man and his logic.

***

More days pass, and my stomach increases in size in direct proportion to the rate at which my temper shortens. I become cranky, hormonal, and in general a colossal pain in the butt. It gets to the point where Mike and Dad hardly dare to set foot in the room, and only Mom's utter pig-headed determination keeps her coming back despite the temper tantrums I throw.

"It's COLD!" I shriek, layering on sweaters and cranking up the thermostat from a balmy twenty degrees Celsius to a scorching thirty five. "It's freezing in here!"

"It's just right, Sydney, now turn that back down before you use up all the oil in the province!" Mom fires back, her brow creased with fury. "You have to pay for this, you know!"

"Then why should it bother you?!" I retort.

"Because I don't like to see you throwing your and Michael's hard earned cash out the WINDOW!!! Now turn it DOWN!"

I do, but I sulk for a while after, and when supper that night is charred beyond all recognition I see Mike warring with himself, wondering whether it's worth commenting on or not.

I glare.

"Well?" I ask dangerously. "You have something to say?"

He smiles weakly up at me over a plateful of black potatoes and burned meatloaf.

"No, darling. Nothing at all."

I nod, satisfied.

"That's what I thought. That's just what I thought."

***

No time at all passes before classes are back on track again, and the snowstorms stop hitting with such fierce regularity. This leads to the onset of cabin fever, however, as my walks are carefully monitored by my nearest and dearest, so I don't tire myself out too much, and I therefore start to feel rather like a dog on a leash.

"Mom, it's just to the movie store!" I protest as my mother stands threateningly in my path, pointing at the car with that 'Don't you argue with me or I'm going to show you who's still the mother around here' look on her face. "It's not gonna kill me!"

"No, but I will if you don't smarten up!" she warns, so Emily comes out of the sled, is seated in the baby seat, and I sulk like a child as Mom complacently drives me to drop off the tape that I hadn't even liked anyway.

On the way back from the store, though, I forget to sulk as I suddenly sit up straight, a peculiar expression on my face. Mum glances over, surprised.

"Syd? Sweetheart, what is it?"

I blink. Had I really . . ?

Yes, there it is again. The tiniest fluttering sensation just below my navel. An involuntary smile crashes across my face like sunshine breaking through on a cloudy day, and I let out a whoop of excitement.

"It moved!"

"It did? What did?"

"Not what- who. He, or she, or whoever . . . my baby!"

I sit as still as I possibly can, waiting for the next sensation. It comes in short order, a bit more decisive than before, and I turn to Mom to squeal over it. She has by now prudently pulled over to the side of the road, and is able to rejoice properly with me, asking about location, intensity, and any other number of such things.

"How far along were you with Emily when you first felt her?" Mom wants to know once we are finally on our way again, and I attempt to remember.

"Almost twenty three weeks, I think."

"And you're what now, twenty?"

"Twenty one this week."

Mom shakes her head with a happy smile.

"Grandbabies," she grins. "Emily and . . . have you discussed names?"

I give her the two choices, and she approves.

"Your father might be a bit miffed at the choice of middle name if it's a boy, though," she twinkles. "He never much cared for his name. Though I suppose it was the Donahue part that really got him each time."

"No fear," I rolled my eyes, "there's not a chance I'd be naming my son Donahue, no matter how dearly I cared for the namesake, even if it was just his middle name. Can you imagine the teasing he'd get if the other kids found out what it was?! And they would, Mom- you know that they would. Kids always do."

Mom admits that they do have that tendency, yes.

"But with a name like William Jonathan," she soothes, "he'd be safe. And so would little Sophie Irene, if that's who she is . . . Sydney, I can't tell you how glad I am that I can be here when this one is born. I still regret not being here when you had Emily."

I shake my head.

"There were . . . extenuating circumstances, Mom," I soothe her. "I understand. Really, it's fine."

She shakes her head, though, her expression troubled.

"It's not," she insists. "I should have been there when you were pregnant. For your questions, and concerns . . . that's what mothers do. And now you've been through it already, and soon you'll have had more experience than I have. When they turn six, I'll practically be obsolete- I never had a teenager, Sydney. I never got the chance. Your first will be my first, too. And you need somebody you can turn to if you have problems. I won't be that person, no matter how much I'd like to be, and for that . . . sweetheart, I am so, so sorry."

I shake my own head, frowning at her.

"Mom, just stop it," I command her, using Lisa's dog-training formula for success; name first, directive second. "Do you hear me? Just stop it."

She looks at me uncertainly, and I barrel on.

"You have no right to blame yourself for . . . what things were like. You said yourself- Emily is our promise. We're starting over here, on a completely new page. That's what it is, right? A fresh start. The rest of it . . . none of that counts against us anymore, Mom. That's what the salvation plan is. And that's what this whole town has been for us. So stop obsessing about what you missed out on, and start thinking about everything you're going to be a part of. It looks so much better when you do."

She gives me a tiny little smile as we turn onto Bridge Street and head towards the house.

"How did you get so smart, I wonder?" she wants to know, and I shrug off-handedly in reply.

"It's in the genes, I guess. Now, tell you what. When we get inside, I'll get out the photo albums, you make us a pot of tea, and we'll look at all the pictures from Emily's birth, all right? It's got to be a lot safer," I add, "than actually having been there, anyway. There was some minor property damage incurred that day."

"Yeah," Mum nods, eyes twinkling as the house comes into sight, "Michael did mention something about a broken camera that he had been quite attached to."

"Labour makes me violent," I shrug, and she nods.

"So he said too, darling. So he said, too."

***

Not all of my bad moods over the next few weeks end so smoothly as that one. Some of them build and build until I end up breaking something that I'll miss later on, so as a result I find myself locking up more and more of the good china as the months of January draws to a close, and February rolls around.

Mike appreciates the effort and expresses a desire to show me how much, but I wave him off, saying it's unnecessary. Mike, however, disagrees, and feels that it is very necessary indeed, so when Valentine's Day comes to pass, I wake up to find myself surrounded by a roomful of velvety red and white roses. A plush white teddy bear twice the size of Emily sits beside me on the pillow, holding a sign saying he loves the baby and me "Beary, beary much."

Naturally I am so overjoyed that the hormones just have to kick in, and I burst into noisy tears, making poor Michael wonder what it is he did wrong.

"Nothing!" I sob into the blankets, "Nothing at all! It's all so beautiful, Mike, and so sweet of you . . . you didn't have to do this . . . it must have cost a fortune, all these roses . . . and he's beautiful, Mike, he's gorgeous . . ." I squeeze the bear to me as the tears continue to fall like rain.

"Then why are you crying, sweetheart?" he asks tentatively, reaching out to touch one of my piteously heaving shoulders.

"Because," I sob, "I- I'm just so- so happy!"

Then I burst into fresh tears, and cling to the poor man, soaking him with my elation.

"Okay . . ." he sounds uncertain, but willing to believe it if I say it's so. "If you're sure . . ."

"I am," I sniffle, regaining a hold on myself with a supreme effort, and smiling up at him through my watering eyes. "I've never been more sure in my life, Mike. I love you so much. And I just . . . you're such a wonderful father to Emily, and a terrific husband to me, that I- that I just don't deserve you!"

I burst into tears again, and this time he doesn't speak. He just holds me, and lets me cry.

Sometimes that's all you can do.

***

"Do you realise," I frown, munching on a Fudgsicle as I study the calendar, "that Emily is turning one year old in less than two weeks?"

Mike's head snaps up from a pile of test papers that were supposed to be graded the week before and he regards me with a kind of stupor that I would find endearing if I weren't so preoccupied.

"Not seriously?"

"Seriously. It's the fifteenth now. She turns one in thirteen days."

"But- well- what are we going to do?"

"I don't know," I frown, thinking. "She wouldn't need a big party anyway. It wouldn't mean anything to her. But presents, certainly, and Mom and Dad, and maybe Tom and Lisa as well. What do you think?"

He blinks.

"I- well . . . I'm not sure."

He glances downward.

"All I can think of right now is Problem B 12, which so far every single kid in both of my math classes has done wrong. How hard is a little long division anyway, I ask you?! I can't do anything until I get these dealt with, Sydney, I'm sorry. And that might take all weekend. But I'm sure it couldn't be too hard to just throw a party together, could it? A little cake, ice cream, and those annoying cone hats should about cover it, shouldn't they?"

I look at him.

Thus speaks a man who has never planned a party before.

"Sure, Mike. Sure, they should."

And thus speaks the woman who is not going to let him.

***

It is Mom, rather, who comes with me to see to purchasing decorations, cake ingredients and everything else that we may or may not require. She drives me, she lifts, pushes, carries and directs for me, and she probably would have paid for me, too, if I hadn't stolen her wallet to keep her from doing just that.

"I remember your first birthday," she smiles, as we wind our way through Wal-Mart looking for the best deals on streamers. "Your father put this pink dress on you that had so many frills, we lost you in them. Just layer after layer of fluffy ruffles. You looked like some ghastly joke wedding cake, and he couldn't have been more proud of you. The man never could tell a decent dress from the most hideous one on the planet, but I promise you, Sydney, he more than made up for it by how dearly he loved you."

Her face softens slightly.

"How dearly," she amends, "he loved us both."

I giggle at the memory, and grin at the look on her face.

"What's with the past tense?" I chide her. "He loves you madly, Mom. It's crazy how much he loves you. I think he'd have let you knock out that wall in his apartment, if he hadn't been so deathly scared of what his super would have said about it."

Mom just smiles, and reaches for a set of party hats as a means of changing the subject.

"How about these?" she wants to know.

I examine them.

"Happy Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary?"

I arch an eyebrow. Mom's smile is bland.

"She can't read, dear," she points out, "so if nobody tells her, how's she going to know?"

I roll my eyes.

"I don't think so."

She shrugs.

"You can't blame a girl for trying . . . oh, look, Sydney, balloons!"

And so it goes.

***

After the 'business' end of our shopping trip is completed, Mom and I are able to turn to the slightly more pleasurable aspects of being in a mall and having a good three hours left before our husbands expect us home.

"What do you think?" she wants to know, as we hang over the counter in one of the jewelry stores, our breath fogging the glass as we ogle a necklace that maybe one out of a hundred thousand people in the entire province would even be able to consider affording. "Should I get that for you father?"

I blink.

"Mom, that's a diamond necklace. I never really thought of Dad as the jewelry type."

"Oh, he is," she nods. "He loves it on me."

I roll my eyes.

"Ha, ha, Mom. "

"He has excellent taste," she beams, beckoning regally at the sales clerk to come and assist her. "I'm sure he would adore this."

"Without a doubt," I agree. "Right until the end of the month, when the credit card bill showed up."

She laughs- a tinkling, gleeful sound that matches the sparkling, crystalline quality of the stones that shimmer against her collarbone as she wraps the ornament about her neck, and trails her fingertips over it longingly.

"It's exquisite," I find myself forced to agree, admiring the sparkle of the stones in the muted light.

Mom's eyes take on a softer sheen as she strokes the jewels much like many women will fondle their pet cats, and she looks like an entirely different person. I can almost hear the clink of fine china and crystal, sterling silver flatware tinkling as it aids in the consumption of exquisitely cooked, imported foods. She sways a bit, watching the lights hit each and every facet.

She sighs.

"In a different life . . ." she muses, and bites her bottom lip.

I watch her, suddenly feeling uncertain. I had asked her many times before now if she'd had any regrets about giving up Dad and me when she left for Russia; if she'd had any regrets about losing so much time. But I had never asked her if she had any regrets about living with us now.

It had never occurred to me that she might actually have had reservations about giving up the opulent lifestyle she was living when I found her the year before, all for the sake of coming back to be the wife of a University professor in a two bedroom apartment where she couldn't even put windows in where she wanted. I swallow, suddenly unsure, and am about to speak tentatively to her on the subject when Emily, cuddled against my hip, saves me the trouble.

"Gah," she observes thoughtfully, and Mom spins around to face us both, the dreamy look leaving her eyes to be replaced by a sudden, hopeful spark.

"What did you say?" she queries, and Emily stretches out tiny hands to her, repeating insistently,

"Gah!"

Mom's face splits into a beatific smile, and she reaches out to take her granddaughter in her arms.

"That's right," she laughs, "me! I'm your gah, aren't I? Oh, little love," she nuzzles my daughter's downy curls, and Emily's hands stray to examine the sparkly trinket Mom still wears around her neck.

She intercepts Emily's hands before they arrive, though, and shakes her head at her, smiling.

"It's pretty, I know," she laughs, "but you don't need something like that, silly girl. You already have a place to live, friends and family who love you . . . you have everything you need."

Then she takes it off and passes it back to the clerk with a smile of thanks, and together we leave the store, Emily nestled down in Mom's arms, her chubby fingers entwined in graying brown curls.

My question has been answered.

My mother has no regrets.

***

Once the official arrangements regarding the party have been set up, I have nothing left to do but settle back and watch my stomach grow as I end my second trimester. Our new family member is an especially active one, and this leads Mom to decree that she has a grandson in the works.

When I go for my ultrasound, however, Michael and I both request that this neither be confirmed nor denied, as we are finding ourselves partial to the element of surprise. Instead we revel in the grainy image on the screen that is our baby- the baby who seems particularly fond of kicking its mother whenever she so much as bats an eyelid.

"Fussy little tyke," Mike observes, laughing, as we leave the hospital with a bill of clean health for both the baby and myself, as well as a ream of printout shots of our second bundle of - highly energetic - joy. "I think he or she must have given you at least four good punches and eight kicks since we went in there."

I have to admit it must be at least that, if not more, and then suggest that we go and get our grocery shopping done now, since Emily's party that weekend will be requiring something more than the cake Mom has said she will make.

He is able to concede to this plan, so we head downtown together, his left hands on the steering wheel and his right one resting on my stomach, both of mine on his, the two of us so wrapped up in each other that we nearly miss the grocery store.

We do manage to get ourselves parked, though, and once we have it's only a short walk to the front doors.

"So what are we going to need?" he wants to know, disengaging a cart from the line. "I didn't think we were out of anything, so am I right in guessing we're just here to get snack stuff?"

I nod.

"Chips, dip, and a bunch of junk. Things that I'll feel horribly guilty for feeding to our family and friends, and things that I'll feed them anyway, just to avoid a massive clean up afterward. Let's get a veggie platter, just to save face, all right?"

As Mike goes to locate a veggie platter, and I realize that I've left my purse in the car, so I hurry outside to get it, before some opportunistic passerby decides that it's his lucky day.

I'm rooting around in the back seat when I feel it- a nervous prickle of apprehension.

Looking up, through the window, I see a man standing on the opposite side of the street on the sidewalk. A man with short, spiky blonde hair, wearing a black coat. I can't see his face. I don't want to.

Trembling violently I duck down, and grab the utterly ridiculous hat that Dad gave to Mike as a joke for Christmas. It's Russian style, rabbit lined with massive ear flaps that nearly smothered Mike the first - and last - time he put it on. He stuck it in the backseat of the car on Boxing Day, saying that if the car ever broke down on some deserted back road in the middle of the winter, we could probably wrap Emily up in it to keep her warm.

Now, though, I tug it onto my own head and yank the flaps down over my cheeks, effectively turning myself into an obscure little object- one that likely would not even have been recognized by her own mother.

Thusly arrayed, I ducked my head and hurried blindly across the parking lot - purse tucked under my arm - to rejoin my husband and panic.

Mike is just getting ready to pay for everything when I find him, and he looks at me in dumb amazement.

"Syd- is that my hat?"

I yank it off, and when he sees my face his lips tighten.

"What? What is it?"

I shake my head, searching for the words.

"I- I . . . Sark."

He reaches out and takes my shoulders.

"Where?"

I shake my head.

"No, I- I'm not sure it's him, I just . . . I saw a man . . . he looks like . . . I'll show you."

I do, dragging him towards the door and out into the parking lot, pointing across the street to where the man had stood just minutes before.

He's gone.

Seeing this, I begin to tremble violently, and Mike grabs me before I can fall.

"Sydney, look at you," his voice is fraught with concern. "We can't live like this for the rest of our lives. It's going to kill us. The second we get home, I'm going to call San Quentin, and get an update on their progress. Then we can know for sure where we stand, all right, sweetheart?"

I can only nod, still shivering. He sees and draws me to him, tightening his grip around me.

"Shh," he soothes, "shh. We're going to fix this, Syd. We're going to fix it. I promise you that."

***

When we get home, Mom and Emily are deeply engrossed in a tummy-rubbing session with Archie, who is thumping in delight. While Mom and Emily seem enthralled at the sight, I am less so, since when normal dogs thump, it's rather adorable, but when Archie thumps, it's hazardous to all breakables that aren't nailed down.

Mike, though, suggests that I sit in the front room with the three of them while he makes his call, and try to take a couple deep breaths to calm myself down.

Mom, looking up with a smile of greeting as we enter, quickly sobers when she sees my face.

"Sydney? Darling what is it?"

In between choked little sobs I tell her, and she is on her feet in an instant, removing my outer layers and pushing me onto the couch to get me off my feet before I fall off of them.

"Listen, Sydney," she instructs me firmly, "just listen to me. I want to know this- did you see his face? Do you know for certain that this person was Sark?"

I shake my head, trying not to blubber all over her.

"No, I didn't, I'm starting to wonder if I even saw him! I think I'm going crazy, Mom! That's what it feels like- like I'm losing my mind, seeing him every time I turn my head. It's insane- we can't live like this! I refuse to! I'm not going to be in hiding for the rest of my life- that isn't how people are supposed to live!"

"No, sweetheart, no, of course it's not," Mom agreed, taking me in her arms. As she soothes me, Emily studies us, a bewildered frown puckering her little face. At last she seems to make a decision, and scootches her diapered bottom along the floor until she can reach the couch, and haul herself up onto her feet.

From that position she reaches upward, and begs me piteously,

"Mama?"

Sobbing, I bend down and gather her up into my arms, cuddling the soft little cheek against my own, dampening her puzzled little face with my tears.

She touches the salty rivers with one cautious, dimpled little finger, and then tastes what she has found there. She is neither impressed nor disgusted by it, but examines her own finger intently, as if intrigued by the taste.

Watching her, I have to smile in spite of myself.

"We have to keep her safe," I tell Mom, my tones grave. "Her, and her little brother or sister. Both of them. I want to keep them safe from all of the mistakes we've made."

Mom shakes her head.

"I want to keep them safe too, Sydney," she points out, "but some mistakes . . . some are going to catch up with everybody whether they like it or not. So instead . . . let's just say we'll deal with it when the time comes."

"But it _has_ come," I wail. "It has! Sark's here, Mom- Sark or somebody is. I can feel it. You don't get it. I can _feel_ it. Maybe it's just paranoia, but something is making me scare stiff to so much as show my face outside, in case the wrong person catches sight of it. I want this to end- I want it to end now."

As I say these words, Michael appears in the doorway, forehead creased in bewilderment.

"Well," he says, "I think . . . I'm not sure . . . but maybe you have your wish."

I look at him in disbelief.

"You mean they caught him?"

He shakes his head.

"No . . . no, I don't mean . . . well, I called San Quentin. And the FBI, and the CIA. All of them. Just to be sure. And then I called the NSA just for good measure, and . . . they all confirmed it."

"What?" I am on my feet, tense, strained and ready to fall over. "What did they say?"

He looks honestly baffled.

"They said he's still in his cell. He never left. Sark never escaped to begin with."

And that's when my knees give out.

***

***

Well, what do you think? Hmm? If you'll scoot back to the first chap or thereabouts, you'll notice I said the title had a point . . . and I'm getting to it now. I hope the next chap will be a little easier for me to write - easier meaning faster - but exams start up in a few weeks, and I have more stuff on the go than I care to speak of, so there can't be any promises.

I do hope you'll stick with me, though, and I am definitely able to promise that when this one is done, the sequel will not drag on nearly as long. For now, a huge hug and thank you to everybody who's reviewed, poked, or encouraged me, and a plea to keep it up- you guys keep me going, so thank you so, so much!

I also thought I should take the time to mention that of all of the incredible reviews, two in particular stuck out to me because both contained predictions/questions of a sort regarding future content of the story. One startled me because it was something I had never even considered, but, in hindsight, now seems entirely plausible. The other startled me because it's actually something that is going to happen. What 'it' is, though, you're just going have to wait and see . . .


	14. Chapter Thirteen

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Well, it's happened! I am now officially . . . insane. No, actually, I'm just a University student, but still, it's rather overwhelming. Second set of mid terms have just attacked, and that's when the real fun begins- as if I haven't been having SUCH fun already. I worked all summer, save for the one week that I had pneumonia, and then I moved into the dorms and kept right on working, hence my inability to update even when I actually felt like it- and I haven't really felt like it lots. I still have a manuscript to finish typing up ASAP, as well as a few new originals that are occupying huge amounts of my time (I'm not going to pretend I mind. I'm finding them fun to write) so I just hope I can keep updates on this coming at something resembling an infrequent pace. Frequent will be a miracle. It's definitely going to keep coming, though- it's plotted out through to the end, so it seems just wrong to not finish it.

I hope you'll stick with me, even if it does take a bit to get this done. Sydney's got a bit left to deal with, as you may have guessed, and I definitely plan on seeing her through it. It just helps that people tell me that they want to see more! So thank you so much to everybody who has done so, and please, keep it up! You're keeping me going- if you can call stalling for nine months 'going' somewhere. I think it's only due to the fact that today - February twenty-eighth - is supposed to be Emily's birthday that I was even able to find the inspiration needed to get this chapter done, but I promise I'll try to keep them coming. Maybe it will even be done in synch with the timeline in the story- who knows? But regardless of how long it takes, thank you all so much for your patience, and please, enjoy!

***

*** 

"We have to keep her safe," I tell Mom, my tones grave. "Her, and her little brother or sister. Both of them. I want to keep them safe from all of the mistakes we've made."

Mom shakes her head.

"I want to keep them safe too, Sydney," she points out, "but some mistakes . . . some are going to catch up with everybody whether they like it or not. So instead . . . let's just say we'll deal with it when the time comes."

"But it _has_ come," I wail. "It has! Sark's here, Mom- Sark or somebody is. I can feel it. You don't get it. I can _feel_ it. Maybe it's just paranoia, but something is making me scared stiff to so much as show my face outside, in case the wrong person catches sight of it. I want this to end- I want it to end now."

As I say these words, Michael appears in the doorway, forehead creased in bewilderment.

"Well," he says, "I think . . . I'm not sure . . . but maybe you have your wish."

I look at him in disbelief.

"You mean they caught him?"

He shakes his head.

"No . . . no, I don't mean . . . well, I called San Quentin. And the FBI, and the CIA. All of them. Just to be sure. And then I called the NSA just for good measure, and . . . they all confirmed it."

"What?" I am on my feet, tense, strained and ready to fall over. "What did they say?"

He looks honestly baffled.

"They said he's still in his cell. He never left. Sark never escaped to begin with."

And that's when my knees give out.

***

When I come around, I am lying flat on my back on the couch. Emily has been removed from the room, but Mum and Mike are still there, bending over me. Archie, too, is expressing his concern, pressing his huge wet black nose in my ear and snuffling in a worried fashion. I push him away half-heartedly as I sit up and eye my husband warily.

"He never escaped," are the first words out of my mouth, and Mike nods helplessly.

"Never. I talked to about ten different people at the prison before I called around to the FBI, CIA, NSA . . . all of them confirmed it. Sark hasn't been out of his cell."

I shake my head in disbelief.

"But- the call. The one I got from the woman at San Quentin. What was-"

"They said no such call ever went out from the prison. They don't know who that woman was, but they do know she doesn't work for them."

"Then who _does_ she work for?" I demand, getting to my feet and earning a helpless look from my husband.

"Sydney, I have no idea. Really. If I did . . ."

I nod, then glance over at Mom, who is absently patting Archie as she eyes me with concern. Concern, but . . .

"You aren't surprised," I accuse, and she bites her bottom lip.

"No," she admits at last. "I'm not."

"Why?"

"Well- I know Sark. He isn't the sort to come all the way up here just for revenge. I'm not saying he is in any way a decent or honourable man – trust me, he's far from it – but . . . he is practical. If he were to come up here, and risk getting caught so soon after his escape, it would have to be very much worth his while. And revenge he would not view as profitable. That was why I was so surprised when you said you had seen him, because I couldn't imagine what would be up here that would interest him. And . . . that's why I'm not surprised to find out he wasn't here after all."

"But- then who is? I mean, not the guy who looked like him, necessarily. That might have just been paranoia . . . I was starting to get scared every time I saw some blonde guy I didn't know. But what about that phone call? Or-" I swallow, "am I really starting to lose my mind?"

Mom shakes her head, frowning.

"Don't be so ridiculous, Sydney, you're doing no such thing. Somebody who knows something of your history with Sark is obviously doing this, though to what end I cannot imagine. Nor, for that matter, do I care to. All that I am interested in is discovering who is really behind this, and teaching him or her," her mouth tightens, "a very sharp lesson.

"For now, however," she takes my arm and leads me into the kitchen, "we are going to give you a cup of tea, and we are going to call your father and tell him what has been going on. He's been kept out of it long enough. You're just as much his daughter as you are mine, and it's time he was told."

I swallow, but nod. So as Mike boils water and I pick Emily up from her playpen to cuddle under my chin, Mom dials Dad at work and asks him to come and join us.

Dad, who has really suspected something for quite some time now, makes it to the house in record time. While I start in on my second cup of tea, Mom and Mike take turns explaining to him everything that has been going on. When they are done, Dad is silent for quite a while. When at last he does speak, his face appears to have been cut from granite, and his tones are hard and cold.

"Sloane."

We three who were in the know exchange startled glances. Or rather, Mike and I exchange startled glances. Mom nods solemnly.

"That's what I was thinking."

"But . . . why?" I want to know. "Why in the world would he do this? Why not just lob a bomb through the front window and have done with it?"

Dad shrugs.

"Sloane, in his own way, is creative. Mind you, I can't say for sure that this is he. But he does seem the most obvious choice, don't you agree? You have had other adversaries in the past, but none of them were ever anything serious enough to warrant such a thoroughly planned assault. And this . . . this bears definite signs of planning. If I had to pick somebody as the likeliest culprit, I would pick Sloane."

I swallow, and consider his words. They do make sense, much as I hate them to, so I nod.

"All right. But . . . how do we go about finding out if it is? And once we have found out, how in the world do we catch him? We haven't got a clue where he's staying."

"My money," Mom remarks dryly, "would not be on the campgrounds."

I have to smile.

"Fine. I suppose the snow does limit us to a certain degree. But there are still quite a few places. Especially if we want to say he could be in Amherst, or Moncton . . . or even not in the area at all. He could be executing this from just about anywhere, couldn't he?"

Dad agrees that he could, but adds he thinks this is unlikely.

"From a certain distance, perhaps. But I believe he would want to be close enough to ascertain that whomever he had hired to do this was doing his or her job correctly. So . . . I think it would not be incorrect to assume that he is somewhere in the near vicinity."

I sigh heavily, my hands straying to begin a steady massage of my abdominal area.

"All right, then . . . what do we do? Just start looking?"

"Eventually, yes, we do," Mom nods briskly. "But not right now. Right now, you are going to go upstairs, run yourself a nice hot bath, and relax. You've been through more than enough lately to run anybody into the ground, and I think it's time that you took a bit of a break."

I find I haven't got it in me to argue with her – indeed, I don't really want to – so I simply nod, and start for the stairs. She follows me up, helping me run the water and select comfortable, nondescript maternity clothes to put on afterward, and then, once I assure her I will not fall asleep and slip under the water, she leaves me to my own devices in comparative peace.

***

The bath helps. I find they always do. True, it's not quite the scalding temperature I'm accustomed to - Dr. Stewart was strongly against me subjecting myself to anything that might elevate my heart rate even the slightest degree - but it's still warm, and the fluidity of it is soothing.

For this reason I am quite supple and calm when I emerge at the end of a lovely twenty-minute soak, dry off, dress, and do something more or less tasteful with my hair to get it out of my face. Then I wander downstairs to find my family has adjourned to the living room, where they appear to have reached some sort of conclusion. When they see me approaching, Dad and Mike get to their feet while Mom, who has an armful of Emily and lapful of Archie's massive head, stays pinned to the chair in a sitting position.

"How are you feeling?" Dad wants to know, and I consider my answer before I deliver it.

"Well," I decide at last, "I'm relaxed, but I'm angry. I'm a mother now, and a wife; not a spy. I want nothing more to do with whatever life we left behind us. If I could, I would go back and say that it never even happened, but as things stand now, that's not an option. So the option that seems . . . second best is that we face this, deal with it, and then make a decision."

"What sort of decision?" Mike frowns, and I take a deep breath.

"Well . . . we're out here on probation of a sort, aren't we? An extremely extended working vacation?"

Mike nods, and I nod as well.

"Right. So . . . we're still on the CIA roster. We're still . . . affiliated. Associated. We're still considered to be . . . part of them. Part of what they do down there. Even if we haven't done any of it ourselves for years. Right?"

Mike nods again, although he looks rather puzzled. I can see a gleam in Dad's eye, though, as well as in Mom's, and I know that they both have something of an idea of where I'm going with this.

"So . . . why is that?" I wonder, beginning to pace. "Why are we still . . . connected to them? Because do either of you," I look at both Mike and Dad in turn, "really have any intention of going back to active duty one they've caught Sloane?"

They exchange glances that are more telling than any answer would have been, and I nod, satisfied.

"Right. That's what I thought. Five years ago - even four or three years ago - it was a possibility. It was thinkable. It seemed likely. But now . . . we have a life here. We have roots; friends, family, and routines. This isn't a hideout any more- it's our home."

I look to Emily, cradled against my mother's chest. She is focusing on her fist with great concentration, and I have to smile at the sight of her rich, green-flecked chocolate eyes crossing slightly as she tries to study it.

"I don't want my daughter raised down there," I say calmly. "I don't want her to grow up in a concrete jungle. I don't want to worry I'll be leaving her without a mother every time I go on assignment. I could never bring myself to be so selfish as to risk her future happiness for the sake of a job. I love what I do here. I love the life we've built, and I love the truth we're able to live."

I face my family squarely, set my jaw and reach my conclusion.

"I don't want to go back."

Mike nods, and the look on his face is one of utter relief as he crosses to wrap his arms around em and bury his face in my shoulder.

"You won't," he says firmly. "You won't. I won't, either. This is where we belong, Sydney- that's not home anymore. I don't want to do back either- there's no way that I ever could. We won't," he tightens his grip on me, "go back."

"Of course you won't," Mom speaks as if there could never have been any doubt on the matter at all. "I would be all alone here if you did, after all, since there's no way I can ever go back to the States- how cruel would that be to an old woman?"

I snort, looking at my mother. She is, not to put too fine a point on it, as gorgeous as she ever was, and I hope I can age even half as gracefully as she has. 'Old woman' is a term applied to shrivelled, white-haired little spinster ladies who keep too many cats; never vibrant, attractive women whose character and charm have only increased as they advance past middle age. Mom, however, seems unaware of the flaw she has made in titling herself as she continues expressing her rationale, turning to address my father with a question whose answer I am sure she already knows.

"And you would never leave me behind, now, would you, dear?" she murmurs, and he grins, moving over to plant a kiss on her forehead.

"Never," he promises her. "I could never leave you. So there remains now only the matter of . . . well, of submitting our resignations, I suppose." He looks mildly surprised that we have come to this conclusion, but it is the surprise of a sudden and unexpected weight lifted from one's shoulders rather than the surprise of an unwelcome occurrence. I smile at my parents from the circle of my husband's arms.

"Then when that's done," I say quietly, "maybe we can finally deal with this and move on. What do you think?"

"I think that sounds like a plan," Mom says briskly. "So go ahead and type up your resignations, or phone them on, or whatever it is you wish, and then once you've done that, I believe we ought to celebrate."

A grin breaks out across my face, and I hold Emily up in front of me, beaming at her.

"Did you hear that, sweetheart?" I wonder, and she grins at me, though of course she has no idea why I'm smiling. "Did you hear that? We're home. Mommy and Daddy and Grandma and Grandpa . . . and you . . . we're all home."

Emily reaches out and pats my cheeks affectionately before I draw her back to cuddle against me, and look over to Mike.

"So . . . do we phone? Or mail? Or what?"

"Phone," he decides. "Let's phone . . . and then once we talk to them we can find out if they're going to require something written or not."

So we all group around the kitchen table and put the phone on speaker as Dad dials the number we know will link us directly to Kendall. He answers on the third ring, and I swallow nervously, holding Emily tighter as Dad speaks, tones even.

"Kendall; it's Jack."

"Jack," the other man sounds startled. "How are you? Is everything all right?"

"We're fine, Kendall," Dad says evenly. "Well- mostly. I've got everybody here with me, actually."

"Hi, Kendall," I call, as Emily bursts into baby babble and pats my face enthusiastically. "Gentle, darling," I murmur absent-mindedly, removing her hand. Mike adds his greeting to the mix, but Mom remains silent, as we never really saw fit to tell anybody from back home that she had Dad had gotten back together again. Once everybody else has said hello, Kendall resumes his more businesslike tone.

"So Jack, what's this all about anyway?"

Dad has never been one to beat around the bush.

"We want out, Kendall," he says bluntly. "All of us."

"What do you mean, out?" Kendall sounds surprised. "Out of Sackville? I thought you people were happy there- I got a glowing report from you just last month, Jack. Why? Has something happened?"

Dad sighed, frowns, and phrases his words with care.

"We're very happy here, Kendall- that's why we're calling. We've simply come to a realisation. We want out."

There is a long silence, and at last Kendall speaks again.

"Out of the CIA, you mean."

Dad nods, although there's really no point, since Kendall can't see him. I can, though, and the quiet resolution in his face only makes me doubly sure that we've made the right decision.

"That's what I mean. All three of us. We want out."

"Jack, are you sure-"

"We're sure, Kendall," he cuts in, and this time there is an edge to his voice I know all too well. He is irritated at having his certainty questioned- my father is not a man to waver once he has made up his mind, and Kendall must realise his mistake, because his next words are conciliatory in tone.

"All right, Jack, just wanting to be sure. Now, I'm going to need formal resignation letters from all three of you, though you can feel free to keep them brief. Just a formality to file, and then . . . well, it will be over."

I close my eyes, wishing with all my heart that what he said could be true. It isn't over yet, if course- far from it. There's still Sloane to deal with, and whoever else might come our way . . . but at least one chapter of my life will be unquestionably closed. At least I can stop putting myself in a dual role of housewife and CIA agent in hiding, and will finally be able to say, with all certainty, that I am Sydney Vaughn, wife, mother and daughter, and a darn fine linguistics professor too. And that will be all, which is probably what I have been looking forward to more than anything else for longer than I have even known myself.

***

Getting the phone call made goes a long way toward calming me down, but I'm still in possession of a spine that is more tense than is, strictly speaking, healthy for anyone. A sound night's sleep does nothing to assuage this, and the following day, Emily's birthday, when my mother comes over in the morning to help set up, she notices and expresses her concern.

"Are you sure you don't want to lie down for a while?" she wonders as we ice the cake set on the table in a kitchen she insisted I have no part in decorating. "You look like you could stand to put your feet up for a bit. Leave me to handle these, and you just go into the living room and lie back on the couch, okay? Doesn't that sound nice?"

It does, but I'm reluctant to follow her suggestion. I'm not the sort of person who finds inactivity relaxing; I would much rather tackle something - anything - else so I wouldn't have to deal with the thoughts that build up during a period of enforced relaxation. Dad says I get that from Mom, but I could have told him that. I don't care who it comes from; currently, I only care that I don't have to lose any outlet into which I might channel my concerns and frustrations. Surely, I think, Mom must understand that . . . but she seems awfully reluctant to admit it, instead trying to convince me that a brief nap will be just what I need to restore myself.

"Just settle back," she encourages me, "and know that your father, Mike and I are here to handle things, okay?"

"Mike and Dad aren't," I mumble, which is true. Dad is at the university, dealing with some paperwork he needs to get in order before his students return from their reading break, and Mike still has two hours to go before he's free to come home and celebrate his daughter, who is currently napping soundly, unaware that it was a year ago today that I broke the family video camera as Mike and I ushered her into the world. Mom, however, brushes aside my protests with an airy flick of her hand, and remains as insistent as only Mom can be.

"You need to rest," she maintains. "We're having a party this afternoon. A small one, perhaps, but a party nevertheless, and you need to be rested for that. The baby takes a lot out of you, Sydney, and the sooner you realise that, the healthier it's going to be for all of us. Now please, even if you won't go lie down, at least sit down, okay? Please," she entreats when she sees the rebellious look on my face, "for me. Just to make em feel better."

I sigh and make a nasty face, but I comply. I know she really does worry, and I figure I can ice the cake just as well sitting down as I can standing up. Once that's done, I'm given a bunch of napkins to fold while Mom tackles the dishes, and I debate whether or not it would be worth the breath it would take me to argue with her. In the end I decide it's not, and get rather creative with the napkins, making pretty little fans, swans and crowns out of all of them. Mom, turning around from executing a vicious attack against a particularly stubborn pot, sees what I've done and blinks.

"Sydney?"

I look up from folding the last napkin into a floral shape and smile sweetly at her.

"Yes, Mother?"

"What is it . . . eh . . . that is, why are-" she breaks off, and seems to be fighting a small smile. I beam up at her.

"Origami. Mike's class learned it when I was pregnant with Emily so they could all make me little gifts, and some of them were just beautiful, so I asked them if they could show me how. You know kids; they couldn't wait to teach a grown up something. I got very well educated."

Mom smiles, reaching down to pick up a little crane and examine it.

"Cute," she decides at last, rubbing a fingertip over its tiny head before setting it back down on the table. "Going to be hard to wipe our mouths with them, though, don't you think, sweetheart?"

"Maybe," I agree cheerfully, setting the little flower down to join its fellows, "but if you'd let me keep two feet under me like a normal person, I wouldn't have been forced to get so creative with these."

I sit back to admire my handiwork, and hear my mother's sigh. She sets her dishcloth down on the table and gathers up my paper menagerie to deposit on the counter before turning to face me, expression stern.

"Fine, then," she says, and her entire demeanour is so scolding that she lacks only a wagging finger to make the picture complete. "You get up, you run yourself into the ground trying to alleviate your concern, and I won't say a word. But you just consider if you want to do that to Mike, Emily, and that baby you're carrying. They need you even more than you need to find some sort of diversion for yourself, so if you're half the woman I'm proud to call my daughter, you'll be smart enough to know when sitting back and doing nothing will be a lot more productive than doing something more physical."

I cringe. I just hate it when my mother makes a valid point.

I even hate it worse when I act on it, but that doesn't stop me from ending up on the couch, my feet propped up, feeling rather sulky and put out about it. I begin plotting many ways to get even with my mother for being so deeply concerned for my well being, but even as I do, I feel my eyelids growing heavy. I fight fatigue I wasn't even aware of before now, but it's clear that I'm fighting a losing battle. My eyelids droop, then close, and before I can even resign myself to the fact that I'm drifting off, I've fallen sound asleep.

***

I sleep right through Mike's return and Dad's arrival, and am only awoken by a cold nose snuffling inquisitively at my face. I open my eyes and find Archie just millimetres away from my own nose, and find myself hard put not to growl at him. He looks so honestly interested in me, though, that I can't bring myself to really be mad, and instead struggle into an upright position, even begrudging him a pat on the head before I rub my eyes and look around. There is nobody in the room with me, but I hear voices in the kitchen, and get to my feet to follow the sound.

I find my family gathered around the table, Mom bouncing Emily on her knee, Dad leaning forward and making goofy faces at his granddaughter, and Mike fiddling with a little frog made out of a napkin. I smile, allowing myself the luxury of watching them all for a minute before I step into the kitchen to join them.

"Are we ready to have a party for this birthday girl?" I wonder, bending down to gather up my daughter in my arms and letting her grab hold of my fingers, grinning up at me. Her eyes are sparkling, and I notice that they're beginning to lighten. Rather than the deep, dark cocoa shade they were when she was born, they've become a sort of dark hazel, with evidence of Mike's green beginning to swirl outward from the irises. More than ever she looks like an exquisite manifestation of both of us, her face alight with the glee of being the centre of attention, though she doesn't know quite why she is.

"Who's the birthday girl?" I grin, bouncing her slightly. "Is Emily the birthday girl?"

She grins and giggles, liking the sound of the words in conjunction with her name.

"Em-ee," she chortles, pleased with herself. "Em-ee . . . Mama boh gee dah baba pah?"

"Very true," I agree solemnly. "Very true. I couldn't agree with you more . . . I think it's almost time for supper too. What would you like to eat, sweetheart? There's strained peas, mashed carrots and of course, everybody's favourite- creamed beef."

Emily is clearly torn with the weight of the decision thrust upon her, so we choose for her, and Mum sets our own dinner out on the table as well. Then Mike and I take turns spooning Emily's into her with questionable success, and Mom and Dad watch us, thoroughly intrigued and unable to keep from commenting - sometimes less than favourably - on our technique.

"You don't heat the carrots?" Mom sounds disapproving, but Mike answers her calmly before I can bristle overmuch.

"She prefers them room-temperature, actually. She'll spit them out if we heat them." He spoons a bit more into her mouth, cooing approvingly as she tastes, deliberates and then decides to swallow. "That's my big girl," he exults, and Emily beams sunnily at him, reaching out to pat his cheeks fondly.

"Da," she gurgles, then looks anxiously for the next spoonful coming her way. I grin, take a mouthful of mashed potatoes and watch as Mike obliges Emily's anxious search for further sustenance with a lot of silly faces, goofy baby talk and a spoon of beef, which she seems to enjoy slightly less than she did the carrots, but condescends to swallow all the same.

"What a good girl," he murmurs, and Dad, finishing off his own meal, turns his entire attention to the dinnertime ritual. Mom, still eating, doesn't comment, but Dad uses every chance he gets to inform Mike that whatever he's doing, Dad himself would not have done it that way with me as a baby, and by the time Emily's full, Mike is fit to be tied, and a little vein is standing out on the back of his neck. It's all I can do to swallow my giggles, and even Mom, getting up to clear off the table, can't quite hide a small smile at the sight of our menfolk fighting over the proper way to raise my just-turned one-year-old.

"If we can avoid a duel," I grinned, getting up also to retrieve a washcloth and wipe Emily's face, much to her consternation, "I think maybe presents would be a good thing right about now, don't you?"

Mike, grim death written all over him, decides that this might be a good idea, and removes Emily's bib so I can tug her free from her high chair, cuddling her against me as I smile down into those gorgeous, wide eyes.

"Who's a pretty girl?" I coo, and she sighs happily, pressing in under my chin and finding a thumb to suck on. "That's right," I grin, and smooth the golden curls that are beginning to thicken and take on volume as they lengthen slightly. "Such a pretty girl . . . my own good girl, aren't you, my lovely?"

"She looks like her mother," Mike grins, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind and kissing my neck before he grins down at Emily. She beams up at him, and he would likely have smiled back had he not felt Dad's glare and backed away quickly. Sometimes Dad forgets I'm married. Or maybe he just doesn't like to think about that, and where Emily came from, and Mike and I are pretty much okay with that. We hate to destroy his illusions.

Mom, though, smacks Dad lightly on the shoulder as she returns to wipe off the table, and shoots him a mildly reproachful glance.

"They're married, Jack," she says tartly. "Get over it. And either get up and give me a hand putting the plates away, or go get the gifts we got for Emily."

Dad actually cracks a smile under the cover of a heavy sigh, and gets up to go retrieve the aforementioned gifts from their place of repose by the front door.

"Should we dress her up?" Mike wonders, watching as I have a murmured, rather one-sided conversation with our child, and Mum stands, dishcloth ion hand, a smile on her face as she watches.

"As what?" I blink, and he laughs.

"Well, I don't know. In a dress. Aren't we going to be taking pictures?"

"What's wrong with what she has on now?" I want to know. "It's clean, and it fits her."

"Well, yeah," he nods, "but it's a sweatsuit."

"Michael, it's a brand new matching pink and white sweatsuit that I bought just last week. I paid thirty-eight dollars for it! It's perfectly adorable on her and it's hardly ready for the Salvation Army, or- or the rag bin!"

Mike concedes that this is true, making me smile, pleased, and cart my little girl into the living room, where I find that Donovan is snoring on the couch and Archie has eaten half of the rug before throwing it all back up again. I tremble, and reach for the fireplace poker, but Mom swoops in just in time and returns us all to the kitchen, where we set up for Emily's celebration and wait while Mom goes to clean up the living room and evict Archie into the backyard, as much for his own protection as anything else.

Then we're ready to get started on the cake, which is really very good even though Emily's one mouthful ends up right back on the plate, and the gifts, which are the source of oohs and ahhs from all four grown ups.

For one baby she certainly seems to have amassed quite a collection of goodies. There are boots, shoes, dresses and overalls, as well as more hats and mittens than I ever really thought I'd see in my lifetime. Mom has finally gotten the hang of those knitting needles. She also gets an abundance of plastic knickknacks from Fisher Price, some handmade wooden things that probably cost Dad twenty times more than the tree they were made from, and a promise from Mom that makes me pale, and thank Heaven that Emily will be too young to remember this later.

"A what?" I blink, and Mom beams.

"A pony."

"A- no."

"Sydney!"

"Mom, NO."

"But Sydney, every girl should have a-"

"I didn't!"

"And believe me, your father and I have had many discussions about that, but that doesn't mean you should deprive your child of that privilege. And of course she's not old enough right now, but she has my IOU for one when she hits . . . well, I should say five or six is an appropriate age, so long as she starts lessons at four. She'll have such FUN, Sydney!"

"Mother," I cringe, pained. "Mother, please, don't do this to me. I'm not giving my child a- a- where would we KEEP it? It's a pony, Mother! Not a puppy! Not a kitten, or a- no! It's just not going to happen!"

Mom, however, just smiles in a way I don't like and suggests we open the last gift.

The last gift throws me for a loop, though, because it's just an envelope, and has my name on it instead of Emily's. I blink at my family, surprised to find all three of the adults are grinning like Cheshire cats.

"Guys?" I'm uncertain, and Mom claps her hands briskly.

"Open it!" she commands, and, not daring to disobey, I slit the flap with my fingernail, and four rectangles of paper fall out. I gather them up and look at the text printed thereon with a kind of confusion, the words sorting themselves into coherence.

"The musical?" I query, and Mom and Dad nod. Every year the Mount Allison theatre society, Garnet and Gold, puts on a different musical. This was the first year they were entirely sold out of tickets, but it appears somebody pulled a few strings, because here I sit, holding four of them.

"We thought you could use it," Mike explains, fitting his arm around my shoulders as Emily leans forward to grab a spoon off the table and gnaw on it, watching us all with wide, green-brown eyes. "A break would be . . . good for you, sweetheart. We'll hire somebody to watch Emily and the dogs for tomorrow evening, and the four of us will go out to dinner and then to the show and it will be NICE," he stresses. "Peaceful, and relaxing, and just what you need."

I feel unexpected ears welling up in my eyes, and I bite my lip to hold them back. Emily, still gumming on her spoon, watches me with wide eyes, so I manage a damp smile and lean over to kiss her Daddy as hard as I can without inciting the rage of his father-in-law before bending down to kiss her as well.

"Thanks," I sniffle, embarrassed but trying not to show it. "Thank you. All of you. I- thanks."

And from the way my husband and parents are smiling at me, I can tell that I don't have to say anything more.

***

***

There! Phew! Happy Birthday to Emily! I have such fun with that baby, and she only gets more delightful as she grows older, so I figured it was the least I could do to write something for her today. I hope that you enjoyed it, because it might be a while before anything else gets written.

I've gotten some e-mails, though, asking if I've abandoned it completely, so I'd just like to put everybody's minds to rest on that point (provided they were restless to begin with). I really do fully intend to finish this story, but I really don't know when I'll get it done. It has to be done at some point, though, so I can start posting the sequel! And, in case anybody's wondering, the sequel will most definitely get updated more frequently than this one has been; I've got so much of it written already, it's kind of a foregone conclusion.

In the meantime, thank you all again for your support; it's greatly appreciated, and I hope that you won't stop giving it!


	15. Chapter Fourteen

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- I can't quite believe it, but I'm writing this again! Finally! I can't tell you how happy this makes me. I've gotten a whole bunch of stuff cleared out of the way and this is finally getting finished. I'm not sure when exactly it will be entirely finished, but I'm hoping that date will be not long in coming. In case anybody's counting, Sydney's baby will be born in June, so I'd kind of like to have that happen in more or less real time, but we'll just see how much free time I can keep on my hands, I guess!

Thank you to everybody who has encouraged me along with this, and an especially large thank you to those who even remember it at all! I know it's been months, but hopefully it won't be quite that long until the next chapter is up. Anyway, sit back, read, and please, enjoy!

000

000

The last gift throws me for a loop, though, because it's just an envelope, and has my name on it instead of Emily's. I blink at my family, surprised to find all three of the adults are grinning like Cheshire cats.

"Guys?" I'm uncertain, and Mom claps her hands briskly.

"Open it!" she commands, and, not daring to disobey, I slit the flap with my fingernail, and four rectangles of paper fall out. I gather them up and look at the text printed thereon with a kind of confusion, the words sorting themselves into coherence.

"The musical?" I query, and Mom and Dad nod. Every year the Mount Allison theatre society, Garnet and Gold, puts on a different musical. This was the first year they were entirely sold out of tickets, but it appears somebody pulled a few strings, because here I sit, holding four of them.

"We thought you could use it," Mike explains, fitting his arm around my shoulders as Emily leans forward to grab a spoon off the table and gnaw on it, watching us all with wide, green-brown eyes. "A break would be . . . good for you, sweetheart. We'll hire somebody to watch Emily and the dogs for tomorrow evening, and the four of us will go out to dinner and then to the show and it will be NICE," he stresses. "Peaceful, and relaxing, and just what you need."

I feel unexpected ears welling up in my eyes, and I bite my lip to hold them back. Emily, still gumming on her spoon, watches me with wide eyes, so I manage a damp smile and lean over to kiss her Daddy as hard as I can without inciting the rage of his father-in-law before bending down to kiss her as well.

"Thanks," I sniffle, embarrassed but trying not to show it. "Thank you. All of you. I- thanks."

And from the way my husband and parents are smiling at me, I can tell that I don't have to say anything more.

000

Once the suggestion has been made, I'm honestly startled at how greatly the prospect of a break appeals to me. I love my daughter dearly and I can't wait to give her a little brother or sister, but once I let myself get excited about an evening out, I realise how much I really do need it. Mike expresses his own joy at seeing me so relaxed - albeit excited - as I'm getting dressed and he's buttoning up his coat to go collect the babysitter.

"You need this," he informs me, as if I haven't already reached that conclusion on my own. "You're a wonderful and devoted mother but you're just so hands-on that you end up draining yourself. You need some you time, and your parents and I," he crossed to grip my shoulders and press a kiss to my temple, "are going to see that you get it."

I'm standing in front of my closet wearing an assortment of supportive undergarments and little else as I try to pick out a dress, and so am hardly feeling incredibly attractive (one thing about those supportive undergarments is they remind you of just how pregnant you are, and that I do not always appreciate) but I let him kiss me all the same. Then I even go so far as to turn around and drape my arms around his neck to return the kiss properly as I observe,

"And you have got to be the most devoted, doting husband in the history of marriage. Really, you do. I don't deserve you," I administer an extra kiss just to emphasise my point, "but I love you more than anything, and I am so, so grateful you're mine."

He flushes, then grins down at me as he pulls me closer- or at least, as close as my belly (and the staunchly supportive pantyhose that cover it) will allow.

"You know it's funny," he confesses, "but I was just thinking that myself."

"What," I arch an eyebrow, "that you're the best husband any woman could ever ask for?"

He laughs and shakes his head.

"No, that I've got to be the happiest man alive to have you as my wife. I am just so," he echoes my words, "so grateful you're mine."

Now it's my turn to grin as I kiss him yet again, then reluctantly break free to admit,

"You told Bella you'd pick her up what, five minutes ago? And it's a five minute drive to their house- longer, if you're going to be careful on those roads. You'd better go now. We can finish this later," I add, my eyes twinkling, and Mike has to be content with that.

He turns then to face the bed, where Emily is focusing most intently on _The Hungry Caterpillar_, which she is holding upside down.

"Give Daddy a kiss, Princess," he instructs her, so she lurches to her feet to comply, placing just such an item on his nose, making him grin so foolishly that he suddenly looks twice as handsome as usual.

"I love you," he twinkles at her, and she beams back at him.

"Wuvoo," she echoes sweetly. "Dada goh mee? Goh Car-car."

"No, Daddy's going in the car by himself tonight. You stay and watch Mummy make herself beautiful," he instructs. "Not," he adds, twinkling in my direction, "that she really needs any improvement in that department anyway. Mummy is lovely just as she is."

I roll my eyes and don't even bother to harp on his pronunciation of my title- over the past year, the kids in his class have slowly changed his 'Mommy' to 'Mummy' and I've finally come to terms with the fact that my daughter will likely be spelling and speaking 'Canadian' with or without his help, so I've finally let it go. Instead I select a black dress that suits the occasion quite nicely and give him a meaningful glance.

"You need to leave, Mister. Now."

He grins, bends down and gives our daughter a final, parting raspberry on her tummy - much to her hysterical delight - and then heads out the door, whistling cheerfully. I hear him administer a few words of parting to the dogs and cat before the door slams shut behind him, leaving me to wiggle into my outfit with all possible speed.

"There," I breath, zipping myself up the back and inspecting my stomach in the full-length mirror, "what do you think, Emily? Mommy look all right?"

Emily beams and claps, delighted, so I decide that I pass muster, and go hunting for shoes that won't send spasms of pain up my back the second I stand up in them. The black flats I finally come up with are hardly glamorous but they're practical, and they'll let me remain on my feet for more than three seconds at a time, so I deem them more than adequate. Those on, I gather up my daughter and head to the bathroom, where the transformation will be completed.

"Mommy," I explain to my little girl as I set her on the floor with her book and a stuffed toy, "should have done her make up before she got into her dress, but over the years Mommy just got so used to using makeup as a disguise rather than a beauty tool that she's just more comfortable doing it once she's fully dressed."

Emily pulls herself up easily using a towel rack so she can get a better look at me applying light touches of blush, eyeshadow and lipstick. I also reach for my lipliner before I remember that Archie consumed it a week ago and I have yet to replace it, and so have to be content with a bit of mascara to complete the general effect. Then I run a brush through my hair and do my best to fluff it up a bit; a recent trim makes pulling it back possible, but the effect is hardly fitting for a night out. A morning jog, maybe, but not the theatre.

Instead I settle for a thin silver clip somewhere between my left ear and eye, and, finally deeming myself done, turn to smile down at my daughter, who is beaming up at me with what I can only take as solid approval.

"Mommy look okay?" I wonder, grinning, and pirouette twice. She lets go of the towel rack to clap and squeal approval once more, and I beam, bending down to sweep her and her fuzzy footed sleeper up off the tile floor.

"I'm glad," I decide as we make our way down the hallway, turning in when we reach her bedroom. "I am very glad. Now what do you say we try to get you a little settled before Bella gets here, just so her job is that much easier? Mommy," I confide in a whisper, "gets to pay a bit less if you're already asleep by the time Bella gets here. That way all she has to do is watch TV, you see, and maybe play with the dogs, and that doesn't cost as much."

Emily's eyes are wide as she listens to my explanation, and at the end of it she breathes,

"Mama awk?"

"Mama talk," I agree, "but Mama talk very, very quietly, in hopes of making Emily sleepy. Is it working? Is Emily sleepy?"

"Em-ee see-pee?" she looks dubious, then shakes her head energetically. "Nononononono."

I laugh, swinging her lightly through the air.

"Oh, yes," I whisper, tones still hushed. "You are so, so very sleepy. You are getting sleepy . . . your eyelids are getting heavy . . . it's almost your bedtime, pretty princess, and you are oh so very tired."

Emily is clearly willing to contest this, but can't manage it with much success, because the majority of what I'm saying is entirely true. She leans her head against my shoulder, and I notice that the curls that have graced her head since the day of her birth have not only thickened but begun to straighten, too.

"Mommy's little girl is getting so big," I murmur around a lump in my throat. "You're getting all big and grown up . . . not entirely, maybe, for a while yet, but . . . you're just a teeny little baby anymore, are you?"

"Nawbaby," Emily echoes sleepily; she's become increasingly like a little parrot, echoing everything we say to her. Although all the books Mike and I have been dutifully studying from agree that she likely doesn't understand most of what she's saying yet, this is still a very crucial point in her language development, and we're supposed to encourage it as much as possible.

"My big, beautiful girl," I say, keeping my tones dreamy to lull her deeper into sleep. "My lovely girl . . . would Emily like a lullaby?"

Emily doesn't deny that she would, so I pick one that Mom has been singing to her on and off for the past few months; a Russian tune that she taught me at my request. It talks about soft green fields and diamond-spotted midnight skies and little girls and boys who have to go to sleep now so they can wake up with the sun the next morning. Emily understands Russian even less than she does English, but she does love the sound of the words and the melody, so I'm not at all surprised to feel her getting heavier in my arms as I sing, and she drifts slowly off to sleep.

I sing a couple repetitions of it, just to be on the safe side, and am just lying her down in her crib as a car enters the drive and the dogs set up such a terrific cacophony of barking that I'm terrified they'll wake her right up again.

Pausing only to make sure the baby monitor is switched on, I slip out the door, shutting it behind me, and stop in my own room only long enough to grab my dress coat off the bed and collect the receiving end of the monitor before heading downstairs to greet my husband and our babysitter.

"Where is she?" Bella wonders as she sheds her coat and Mike helpfully puts it away for her.

"She just went down," I explain, passing along the monitor. "So you should have an easy night of it. The numbers for Mike's cell and mine are both on the fridge, but they make us turn them off during the performance, so you'll have to call the box office if you need to reach us. I didn't write that number down, but it will be in the book under Mount Allison, and the book is in the hall table," I point, "so you shouldn't have any trouble. We'll probably be back about twenty or quarter to twelve, wouldn't you say, Mike?" I glance at him, and he nods.

"Definitely; twenty to, I think. And if you have an emergency, Lisa and Tom are right next door."

Bella promises that she will do her best to avoid the necessity of calling them at all, and on that note my parents arrive, and we agree that we'll be taking their car all together, so with a few last minute instructions thrown at poor Bella from all four members of Emily's fan club we head out the door and pile into the car. Then, once I've wrestled the shoulder and lap harnesses across what I insist is my monstrous bulk, Dad heads around the curve of the drive and out into the road, towards town.

"We thought we'd eat at the Marshlands," Mom explains as we swing in just a few hundred yards down the road. "The food is decent, even if the service leaves something to be desired."

Since she and Dad have promised to pay for the meal, it's not like Mike and I can really argue, is it? And besides, what the food might lack in quality, the dining room makes up for in ambience. Plus you get edible flowers on your plate, and those are always amusing. When we take Emily there, she always shrieks with laughter when she sees her daddy with flowers drooping out of his mouth. Tonight, though, in the absence of his daughter, Mike refrains from decorating himself with the garnishes, and just contents himself with eating them. The conversation, though, more than makes up for Emily's absence by being filled with her.

"When do you suppose she'll start walking?" Mom wonders, nibbling on fettuccine. "You were remarkably advanced in that respect, Sydney; but then, you always were very spatial."

Dad nods with pride at the memory.

"But I suppose," he admits with a meaningful glance at Mike, "Emily's genes will have been watered down a bit."

"Daddy!" I am horrified and promptly swing my toe under the table in the direction of his ankle. Mom, apparently, does the same, because I hear two almost simultaneous cracks, and Dad grimaces rather abruptly.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and ducks his head toward his meal.

Mike doesn't appear to mind, though, and even offers a grin. He's become accustomed to Dad's little barbs over the years; he is, in fact, in complete agreement with Dad in the belief that he is nowhere near good enough for me, which annoys me to no end, but Mom finds very sweet.

"They just both love you so much," she's explained to me countless times, "and they think you're so wonderful that no man could ever truly be worthy of you. Your father is really very pleased that Michael understands this as well as he does."

Now though Dad has dropped into silence and is focusing on his meal, and since my own is starting to get cold I am quick to do the same. It isn't until our server brings out the desserts we've chosen that conversation really picks up again, this time with more general comments on the largely wonderful nature of my daughter.

"Does she like the train?" Dad wants to know. "I know it seems a little . . . masculine in some ways, but I thought she might enjoy it all the same. You know how she loves watching things move. And it's wooden, of course, so she can play with it herself if she likes. Has she tried yet?"

I confess she has not, but quickly reassure him that the toy brush set he gave her was a big hit, seeing as she spent a large part of the morning telling the mirror what a pretty baby she was, a recollection that reduces Dad to not much more than a goofy grin of grandfatherly pride.

"Awwww," he gushes, and my mother rolls her eyes and pats his shoulder.

"Eat your cake, Jonathan," she admonishes him briskly before asking if I've had a chance to see if the overalls she gave Emily fit her.

"They looked a little big," she apologises, "but they were so wonderfully priced, and just so cute, that I thought she could at least grow into them."

I promise to check first thing tomorrow, and then wonder what their plans hold for the weekend coming up. They are a bit uncertain in that respect - apparently Dad wants to go out with some friends from the Lit department but Mom wants him to stay home and help her "lean on" the apartment super in an effort to get permission to put in that window she still wants so badly - but promise to give my invitation to Sunday brunch due consideration. Then we finish our dessert and agree it's about time we paid the bill and started toward the theatre, if we want to have any hope of finding a good seat.

000

We do manage to find ourselves some decent seats, likely because we're there in plenty of time before the curtain goes up. Then Mom and Dad spot some people they know from the Fine Arts department and excuse themselves to go chat, leaving Mike and me to settle down in our seats and just breathe. After a couple minutes of successfully doing so in silence, Mike decides to add sound to the mixture in the form of conversation.

"Do you think Bella is making out all right?"

I nod reassuringly, squeezing his arm. "Of course she is. Emily is sound asleep and Bella is probably just curled up on the couch with Francie watching TV."

He heaves a sigh, clearly unwilling to let it go at that, but seeing as I am unwilling to worry with him, he doesn't really have much of a choice; it's either worry alone, or let it go.

If he chooses the former scenario, then he must do so silently, because as far as I can see he lets it go. Instead of continuing to fret aloud he gives my hand a quick squeeze, rubs his palm across my tummy to greet our child, and then settles back to sit in silence.

I take this opportunity to look around me at the theatre in which we are seated. Con Hall - properly the Marjorie Young Bell Conservatory but who's got the time to say all that - is where both the Mount Allison convocation and the local high school graduation ceremonies take place,. It boasts plush seating, tile floor (with red carpet runners in the aisles) and a distinct lack of orchestra pit that always gives the Garnet and Gold Theatre Society no end of grief when they are putting on their annual musical. The portraits of University Presidents of yore line the walls, an extensive collection of men (and one lone, rather masculine-looking woman) nobody really remembers but everybody hates to admit they've forgotten, and so put on a show of honouring.

Our seats are close to the left aisle, near the stage, which is one of the better areas for sound reception, so I'm expecting a pretty good performance in a little while. For now, though, all there is to be seen is the orchestra warming up quietly, so I let my gaze drift over to where Mom and Dad are still chatting animatedly with their acquaintances, a couple just a few years younger than they.

At first glance, I am amazed to see how normal my parents look; that is, they look exactly like what they are supposed to be a University professor and his lovely, foreign-born wife. But that is only first glance; upon closer inspection you can see that there is something out of the ordinary about them, and as usual, it starts with my mother.

She sparkles austerely in this particular environment, striking me very much as ornate gold gleaming in the midst of a bunch of semi-precious stones, perfectly aware of her own worth but taking nothing more than mere quiet acceptance of that fact as her due. My father must know this- he is an entirely different man when she is at his side. And yeah, I know, what man wouldn't be? She's stunning. But with Dad, it goes deeper than that.

He holds himself a bit more proudly when she is there, and there seems to be a silent deference about him, as if he is not only acutely aware of her presence and her priceless worth, but is proud of it, and desires that all might pay her some form of quiet, respectful homage. He himself is, after all, the only one he would ever permit to be more forward with her; indeed, the only one from whom she would ever accept any sort of crasser admiration.

Like any true treasure, too, she also has about her a marked air of unattainability. Here, the space about her (and my father beside her) seems to proclaim, is one at whom you might certainly look - indeed, one to admire and envy greatly - but never touch. She is in some simple way above the people who gather around her, and although she herself does not declare this, it is so apparent that she really doesn't have to anyway.

Now, speaking to the couple whose name I probably should know, she is as gracious and genteel as ever, smiling and even laughing a bit as they discuss some recent social function at which they all happened to be present. She stands, of course, beside Dad, and although they are not currently making physical contact, it's less because of a lack of desire than it is a lack of need. They fit each other. They don't have to be touching to prove it. As they converse with the couple in front of them - Henderson. I think their name is Henderson - their bodies are ever so slightly angled toward one another, and that, it seems, is all that is required to show the world that they are, in fact, joined as one.

I am, for far from the first time, intrigued by the relationship my parents have. They are all at once such equals and such opposites that there can't possibly be another couple on the planet so unlikely and yet so suited as they. Even Mike and I, as much as we love each other, have agreed more than once that we just haven't got that indefinable something that makes my parents so right together.

We tried, once, to figure out what to label it - that special something - and the closest we got were "chemistry" and "magnetic attraction" but neither of those, we concluded, was quite right. Neither, we agreed, described the utter rightness of what they have together; the unlikelihood and yet utter perfection of the match, as well as its uniqueness. And so we were forced to content ourselves with our feeble attempts at description, and leave it at that.

Finally tiring of my little version of voyeurism, I look away from my parents in favour of scanning the others who are either finding their way through the crowd to seats or have already found seats and decided to take up chatting with friends they have found while waiting for the program to start. I see many faces that are vaguely familiar to me, and a few that I know better than that. Some of my students are here, I see, as are several parents of Mike's students, and a few of them catch my eye and give little waves which I return with nods before continuing my perusal of the theatre.

I'm not sure how long I'd have gone on just generally examining the area - a leftover habit from days when casing a room was perhaps my only hope of survival - had it not been for Mike tapping me on the shoulder, wondering if maybe we shouldn't just give Bella a quick call to check up on the both of them. I glare at him, and decide that the situation demands the most commanding tones I can muster. Conjuring up something that's a rough combination of my mother lecturing me on one of her better days and Lisa training her dogs on one of her worst, I deliver a stern oration.

"Michael, you've got to stop this. I understand you're concerned about Emily and I appreciate it. I really do. As her mother and your wife I could hardly be more touched that you're so worried for her. It's . . . endearing. Really, it is. But this is supposed to be down time, not only for me, but for you, too. And you can't possibly be relaxing when you're obsessing like this, and what's more is you're getting _me_ upset just having to see you so fussed over it. So _please_, Mike, if you could just take a deep breath and forget for two hours that you're such a great dad, I'd really, really appreciate it. And I think it would be healthy. For both of us."

To his credit - or perhaps to mine, due to my ever so severe tones - he is instantly apologetic and promises he'll do his best to comply. Then my parents rejoin us, Mom settling in beside me and Dad beside her, and ask if we're comfortable.

Although I think their enquiry is mainly directed at the one of us who is going to deliver a baby in just over three months, it is Mike who reassures them that yes, thank you, we are. This seems to satisfy them, and Mom pauses to acknowledge a greeting with a smile before tapping Dad on the arm to tell him to do the same and asking if we think there is time for her to "excuse herself". Some people use the facilities; others powder their noses, or wash their hands, or, I suppose, employ any number of other euphemisms. My mother simply excuses herself.

At any rate, it's decided that whether or not there is time for such an exercise, I'm going to have to do the same as well, so we might as well go together. We do, slipping down the row and out into the aisle, towards the back of the theatre and the lobby doors. I steer Mom through them, then to the right, and up the stairs that are located there.

"It's quite a pleasant building," she observes as we climb, "though maybe not as historical as my tastes run. How old is it, do you know?"

I do, roughly, and give her a brief history of the original building that stood on the same spot as the one we stand in now before burning down. She expresses regret at being unable to see the original structure as I guide her toward the second-floor restroom, then falls silent as we separate inside the room itself. We meet up again at the sinks, and she frowns at the tiled wall in front of us.

"Why on Earth haven't they put a mirror here?" she wants to know, so I point her toward the counter and mirror some distance away that compose a sort of vanity, but Mom, it is apparent, is less than satisfied.

She is still slightly cross as we make our way back down to join our husbands, so I refrain from speaking, and instead run through the mental list I have been compiling of items needed for the baby's nursery. There is no way Emily will be old enough for a toddler bed when the baby is first born, but rather than spending two hundred dollars on another crib Mike and I have agreed to borrow a bassinet for him/her until Emily turns two and can have a bed of her own, freeing her crib up for her new sibling. They can, of course, share a changing table, and Emily's gender-neutral layettes have already been set aside in anticipation of the new arrival, with the option of her more feminine-looking outfits in the event of another girl.

My mind clicks along as we locate our seats, rolling through items just as if I was flipping through a Rolodex. Mom and I seat ourselves about five minutes before the friendly voice comes over the speakers, asking us to completely turn off all cell phones and pagers to avoid interference with the electrical equipment. I comply, as do the other three members of my family, and just moments later the lights go down and the orchestra finally ceases its practise numbers in favour of striking up the opening one. As the music plays I feel myself relaxing, settling deep into my seat with Mike on my left and Mom on my right, and Dad, ever watchful, just one seat away.

__

Kiss Me, Kate, has always been a favourite of mine. I don't know what it is, exactly, that I like so much about it, except maybe that it's just so fun. I know all of the songs off by heart though I do manage to refrain from singing along with them- all except for I Hate Men, but that's just because it's such a hysterical song that I can't help it.

Mom, I can feel, gives me a rather amused glance when I do, but she doesn't comment- just gives my hand a light pat and then returns her attention to the performance.

It's not Broadway. I know that. It's just some University students in donated costumes giving what is, technically, a second-rate performance. But I really don't care. Those kids are having fun, and they may not be great but they are good. For the most part, very good. And I am delighted to find that not only am I starting to relax, but I am honestly enjoying myself.

I continue to do so all through the performance, and the two hours seem closer to two minutes by the time the lights go up and we rise along with the rest of the theatre. While the rest of us mortals have to stretch our limbs a bit, Mom remarks,

"Well that was actually very nice. The trombone may have been just a couple beats behind, but who's counting, right? On the whole that was . . . very enjoyable." That praise rendered, she places one hand lightly on Dad's arm and offers to go and retrieve their coats from the coat-check. Dad, though, gallantly refuses and insists on being the one to do so. Amusement sparks in her eyes and they reach a compromise- they will go together.

Then, as they head into the aisle and back up toward the doors, Mike shoots me a rather amused glance of his own and wonders,

"Would you rather wait here or come with me?"

I assure him that I wouldn't dream of tapping my toe in solitude while he waits in the long line up at the coat check, an easy target for either one of my parents should they choose to seek one, so we, too, leave together.

The line isn't as long as I'd expected it to be- they've opened up both cloakrooms, and the majority of people, accustomed to only the one on the right side being open, hadn't even bothered to make use of the left side, so we are waiting behind just five or six other people. Mom takes the opportunity to admire the marble floor in the lobby, then cranes her neck and utters a low cry of appreciation upon catching sight of the ceiling a full three stories above us. Swathed in midnight blue, hundreds of tiny white lights dot its surface, giving the impression of a night sky.

"Oh, it's just lovely," she purrs real approval. "So . . . fanciful, really, which is so rare in an educational institution, even if it really DOES only offer Arts programs. I like it. Sydney, dear," she turns to beam at me, "have you ever considered something along these lines for the new nursery? I think it would be just wonderful."

I try to maintain a straight face while kicking Mike warningly in the shin and explaining we were thinking something more within our budget than a fantasy-theme.

"Basically a nice paint job, a new border and some curtains," I confess. "We make decent money, Mom, but hardly enough to - um - you know," I gesture vaguely at the marble, columns and the "night sky" around us. Mom doesn't try to hide her disappointment, but at least assures us that she understands. Then she turns to step up to the counter and present her claim stub in exchange for her coat. I am next, or I will be if Dad, as he always does, gestures me to precede him, so I reach for my purse to locate my stub also, and in so doing realise that it's not there. My purse, I mean, not the stub; I'm sure the stub is still in my purse, my purse just isn't in my possession. I make a small cry of disgust at myself and my habits in general, which provokes Mike to ask if I am all right.

"Oh, I'm fine, I just left my purse back in-" I gesture, and he nods.

"I'll go get it," he offers, but I shake my head.

"No, you stay here and get your coat and Dad's; that way Dad can go and bring the car up front, all right?"

Mike acquiesces, and although he clearly dislikes the idea of me going to do my own lifting and carrying, I don't give him any say in the matter. There is no way I'm letting him walk out of Con Hall carrying my purse.

There's still quite a crowd in the theatre when I make my way back in. People who either didn't get a chance to talk before the performance or didn't have the time to say everything they wanted to are taking the opportunity now, and it reminds me rather oddly of church just after the service has ended. With that as a basis for manoeuvring I'm able to make better time, and am immensely relieved to find that my purse is still where I left it. I check inside to locate my coat stub, and as I do a gloved hand reaches around me to press a folded slip of paper into my hand. I blink at it stupidly for a second, then whip around to seek the giver of it, but it's a pointless exercise. I'm facing such an abundance of people that I wouldn't even know where to begin, so I turn back to the paper and unfold it.

There are two sentences written on it; two sentences in block print that I can't even make sense of for a second, but once they swim into focus my heart slams down into the pit of my stomach as I read.

__

A responsible mother would never leave her daughter alone at a time like this. I'm surprised at you, Sydney.

I run. I take the paper and my purse and I run. I must knock at least ten different people aside in my frantic attempt to reach the lobby, and my the time I finally do arrive I've started to sob. I run into Mom, first- she's waited with Mike for me to return, and since I don't see Dad I assume he must have gone to get the car.

"Sydney!" she is less shocked than she is determined. Her tones are even yet flavoured with urgency as she demands, "What is it? What's happened?"

I can't tell her, I just shove the paper at her, shaking. Her eyes fly over the text and something lethal flashes across her face before she grabs me around my shoulders and steers me toward the door, calling over her shoulder for Mike to follow. He stammers,

"But- her coat?"

Mom tells him exactly what to do to the coat, and I forgive her the language she uses chiefly because given my current condition I'm in no position to really care much at all- at least, not about anything but my daughter. I barely even notice the frigid temperatures I am rushed out into as Mom waves Dad over to the steps and propels me into the back seat of the car.

"Laura!" Dad is flummoxed. "Her coat! Where's her coat? She's six months pregnant, and-"

"And we're going home, Jack," Mom snaps, "NOW."

Mike barely makes it into the car himself before Dad is convinced that it will be in everybody's best interests for him to floor it, and by the time he reaches the bottom of the drive he's built up such an impressive speed that he's barely able to stop long enough to look both ways before merging with York Street traffic.

"I don't understand," Mike, squished between Mom and the door, stammers. "Sydney- Sydney got a note? From who?"

"I don't know who from," I sob, grabbing it from Mom and thrusting it at him. "I don't know, but whoever he is, he's right! I'm so stupid. I'm just so incredibly stupid for agreeing to go out and leave her alone with just- Mike, she's fourteen! Bella's just fourteen years old and I left her with our daughter when we're being hunted by- by who knows what sick maniac this time. Probably Sloane. Except we don't know for sure, and- and- what if something happens to her? To either of them? What am I going to tell her mother? What if- what if-" I break off, shaking and fighting sobs as Dad goes flying over a small hill and we land in a manner that will eventually force him to replace his shocks, if not the entire car. Mom puts her arm around me and rubs my leg soothingly, murmuring as she does.

"Shh. Shh, sweetheart, shh. Everything will be . . . resolved," she vows grimly, a deadly light gleaming in her eyes that makes me wonder whatever happened to the genteel woman of some hours previous. She is gone, replaced by a lethal-looking predator that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

Well. Maybe not on normal worst enemies. But mine are so horrible I just might want to see what would come of her in a room with one of them. It would be something to see, anyway.

But for now it's all I can do to focus as Dad swings into our drive and comes to a screeching halt. I register the fact that the front door is ajar, and somebody screams as I throw open the car door. It's not until I reach the door itself that I realise the scream was mine, and it's also when I reach the door that, as madly desperate as I was to get here, I suddenly can't make myself step over the threshold. I'm simply too scared; I just can't bear the thought of what I might find.

000

000

Well, what do you think? Was it worth the time it took to write it, or not? I love writing them in this setting- it makes me happy to see them happy, and I'm looking forward to getting this resolved so I can move on to the next problem! As I've been saying, the sequel is almost entirely written now, and I'm getting anxious for me to finish this up so I can move on to that.

In the meantime, I hope everybody is enjoying seeing Syd and Vaughn play housewife/husband. I think one thing about Alias is it's so totally ABNORMAL that to see the characters trying to be normal is . . . well, either heart-warming, heart-wrenching or just plain funny, depending on how you look at it. Hope you're all enjoying, and looking forward to more!


	16. Chapter Fifteen

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

- Another update- woo-hoo! I never say woo-hoo in real life, but on paper - or in print, anyway - this did seem an appropriate time, so woo-hoo! And thanks everybody for your reviews- you all deserve a woo-hoo of your own because despite my - I think justified - expectations, you did not forget about this fic! I am delightfully surprised! I also have no classes tomorrow so I can stay up late and finish this chap just for all you sweet people who actually remember my story even though it's like two years old now. It's a toddler.

I'm starting to really have fun with Syd and Vaughn again - I always have fun with Jack and Laura just because characters who may or may not commit random murders are always fun for me - so this should be done before Christmas rolls around. There's not too terribly much left to write anyway- I'd say two or three chaps and an epilogue, if I stick to my outline.

Anyway, you guys are all so great to stick with me as I try to sort things out, and I really wanted to show you how much I appreciated it by inflicting another chapter on you. So grab a cup of tea or something and just sit back and enjoy! Or try to. I didn't really want to write this chap. It made me cry. But I'm better now, and I think it's pretty good, so I hope you MOSTLY enjoy!

000

000

"I don't understand," Mike, squished between Mom and the door, stammers. "Sydney- Sydney got a note? From who?"

"I don't know who from," I sob, grabbing it from Mom and thrusting it at him. "I don't know, but whoever he is, he's right! I'm so stupid. I'm just so incredibly stupid for agreeing to go out and leave her alone with just- Mike, she's fourteen! Bella's just fourteen years old and I left her with our daughter when we're being hunted by- by who knows what sick maniac this time. Probably Sloane. Except we don't know for sure, and- and- what if something happens to her? To either of them? What am I going to tell her mother? What if- what if-" I break off, shaking and fighting sobs as Dad goes flying over a small hill and we land in a manner that will eventually force him to replace his shocks, if not the entire car. Mom puts her arm around me and rubs my leg soothingly, murmuring as she does.

"Shh. Shh, sweetheart, shh. Everything will be . . . resolved," she vows grimly, a deadly light gleaming in her eyes that makes me wonder whatever happened to the genteel woman of some hours previous. She is gone, replaced by a lethal-looking predator that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.

Well. Maybe not on normal worst enemies. But mine are so horrible I just might want to see what would come of her in a room with one of them. It would be something to see, anyway.

But for now it's all I can do to focus as Dad swings into our drive and comes to a screeching halt. I register the fact that the front door is ajar, and somebody screams as I throw open the car door. It's not until I reach the door itself that I realise the scream was mine, and it's also when I reach the door that, as madly desperate as I was to get here, I suddenly can't make myself step over the threshold. I'm simply too scared; I just can't bear the thought of what I might find.

000

Mom has never that I can remember displayed any patience with hesitation of any sort, and tonight is no different. When I stop in the doorway she surges up behind me, grips me firmly by my shoulders and moves me to the side and backward, passing me off to Mike as she herself moves quickly into the front hall, Dad right on her heels, and takes a sweeping look around.

"Clear," she calls over the hideous clanging of the house alarm and a terrifying roaring sound coming from the basement door. She reaches for an umbrella in the rack by the door, hefts it expertly, then passes my father the hat stand itself. Dad quickly unscrews the stand part, leaving him with a pretty nifty wooden staff with some metal prongs at one end, and Mom issues some rapid-fire instructions to us mere mortals who are still lurking uncertainly in the doorway.

"Sydney," she barks, "your babysitter is on the floor in here. Come inside to help her up, but first turn off that blasted noise before we have the whole neighbourhood in here. Your father and I will check upstairs and in the attic; Michael, you cover the ground floor and the basement."

Nobody argues. She and Dad move quickly up the stairs armed with their makeshift weaponry as Mike gently guides me into the house. Once I assure him that I'm not about to shatter to pieces just from the fear that's racing up and down my spine he lets me go and abruptly heads straight through the house toward the back in search of any lingering intruders.

Left to my own devices I move to the left side of the hall where the alarm panel is usually hidden behind the hat stand, key in the code, silence the noise and wonder absently why the police haven't arrived yet, since the system is supposed to run to the RCMP station as well. In the middle of my wondering I turn my attentions to the living room where I find that Mom was right (but then, is she ever not?); Bella is indeed crumpled up on the hardwood floors, half on the rug, half off, clearly lying where she fell who knows how long ago. I gasp involuntarily as I rush toward her, bending down and groping frantically for a pulse, nearly sobbing with relief when I find one. I could never have stood it if she'd been killed because of me too.

I lift her onto the couch after checking quickly for broken bones and finding only a small dart sticking out from her right shoulder. This, I surmise, was how they - whoever 'they' are - must have subdued her, because as far as I can see she is otherwise perfectly intact. After removing the dart I check her pulse quickly once more, relieved to find that it is still going strong.

This verified to my satisfaction I bend over her, pulling the throw down from the back of the couch to cover her with. It's a silly, simple gesture that even with its general pointlessness serves to calm me just a bit; to keep me from thinking of what will eventually have to be thought of. Who I will eventually have to enquire after. Who I will need to know is in the house . . . or not.

"Sydney," Mike calls from the kitchen, mercifully interrupting my train of thought, "is she all right?"

"She'll live," I answer him, fighting just a tiny tremor in my voice as I stand up and head back into the hallway. He meets me there, a rolling pin in hand, and announces that as far as he can tell, the ground floor is clear.

It's now that it occurs to Mike - as it has already done to me - that the police should have been here by now. The alarm may not be overpowering but it is, he recalls aloud, supposedly wired through to the RCMP station, and they surely should have been here by now. I agree that he's right- that, or the alarm company is going to pay in blood. Mike, though, upon inspecting the alarm more closely, declares that the wire that must, he assumes, summon the police, has been cut clean through. The rest, though, have not been bothered with.

"Must have left it on for effect," he mutters grimly, and indeed, that is the same feeling I've been getting since we arrived home. The gaping door, the drugged sitter, the clanging alarm; the whole set-up screams for passers-by to notice it. It begs to be marvelled at and remarked upon . . . and it is designed to strike icy fear into the heart of the homeowners themselves. In this and all other objectives, it has more than succeeded.

I'm frowning still, mostly in annoyance at finding out that I succumbed in exactly the way the intruders must have expected me to, when I register that one sound has not stopped- the savage snarls and barks coming from behind the basement door. I catch Mike's eye, jerking my head towards it, and he nods his comprehension. Even if the dogs were dealt with upon entry, one of them, at least, apparently refuses to be kept out of things any longer. He, as I am sure my entire family is by now, is out for blood.

We move toward the basement and open the door together and Archie surges out at once, a raging yellow hulk of a dog with glowing, demonic eyes. He practically roars his impotent fury, every hair along his spine standing out straight as he tears around the first floor, snarling and scrabbling at every unwelcome scent he finds, running on a perilous seek-and-destroy mission with the intruders clearly his primary objective. I see, when he pauses for a moment to sniff at the spot where the hat stand once was, that a tufted dart is still protruding from his flank. To all appearances it's the same one that was used on Bella, but it obviously didn't hold him down for as long as the shooters had intended it to. It did, nevertheless, keep him under long enough to shove him into the basement, and I'm fairly sure it's this incarceration that is fuelling his mad hunt now; a hunt that, rather predictably, turns up nothing.

Leaving Archie to his own devices, Mike and I make our way downstairs together. There, on the cement floor, we find Donovan, stretched out flat and terribly, tellingly silent, a dart of the same style as was used on Archie and Bella also stuck in his side.

I bend down to touch him, even though I don't really want to, and Mike fumbles through the folds of skin around his neck, although we both of us know that there's no need. Somehow, you can tell just at the sight of him. Even a drugged bulldog, surely, would breathe and snore just a little bit, wouldn't he? Especially a dog who snored so loud and so well in life. But Donovan is so dreadfully, revealingly still and silent that all it takes is a quick check for a pulse to verify that, unlike Archie, likely due to a combination of his lesser size and advanced age, Donovan simply wasn't able to handle the dose he was given. His heart, I guess aloud quietly, simply gave out at the shock of the drug and the abundance of it; at any rate, he's gone.

Mike trembles only briefly at the realisation before tightening his grip on the rolling pin and rushing back up the stairs, yelling for my parents to find our daughter, NOW.

I'm close on his heels and we pause in the entryway only long enough to verify that my parents are still not in sight anywhere on the ground floor. Then we race upstairs together to the second floor, find that my parents are not in residence there, either, and so mount one final flight to the attic, where we find, besides an overabundance of junk in general, Mom and Dad. They still carry their weapons and are now flanking Archie, who has found them and, apparently, something else as well. He is howling and scrabbling frantically at the bottom of a door that bars him from entering a tiny crawlspace built in under the eaves.

Dad gestures for Mike to move me back, which Mike does, but I fight free from his grasp although I don't move forward once I have. My father, I know, does not expect to be disobeyed at this point, and only a fool would disobey Jack Bristow when he's got that particular lack of look on his face.

He reaches for the door handle and all but rips the portal backwards, then hefts his hat stand in preparation for an assault. Mom, too, extends the steel tip of her umbrella in readiness, but at seeing the interior of the closet, both of my parents lower their arms quickly.

I suppose we should have guessed; Archie wasn't growling any longer, he was simply whining hysterically, the way he does whenever she's out of his sight for more than two minutes. At any rate, he knows before we do and once the door has finally been opened for him he immediately flattens himself to the ground, tail flagging anxiously in a welcoming reception, tongue flying as he inches his way forward, whimpering his delight at the sight of his re-found treasure.

I'm flying forward then, as I realise the truth, shouldering my mother out of the way and bending down, reaching into the cramped little closet to collect my bewildered daughter. She is filthy, tear-streaked, red-faced and wailing by the time she reaches my shoulder, the suddenness of everything frightening her at least as much as the initial attack did. There is a note pinned to her now grimy pink sleeper and I rip it off as I hold her tight, throwing the scrap at my family, not caring for anything at all but the fact that Emily is safe.

"Honey," I gasp, hugging her tight against me, "Sweetheart . . . are you okay? Look at Mommy, Emily. Look at me- good girl. Are you okay? It's all right, darling, Mommy's here. Mommy and Daddy," I back up into the circle of Mike's arms, "are here. We're here, and we're staying with you, angel, okay? It's all okay, now," my voice has become sing-songy through my scratchy throat and tears in an automatic effort to calm her screams. "It's all okay."

Emily is still crying but she's no longer screaming, and Mom and Dad wear identical expressions of grim death as they regard the note that was left attached to her, addressed for my benefit.

"You were careless once before, Sydney," Mom reads aloud from the note, her tones frosted over with the effort of maintaining rigid control over herself, "and it cost you someone you loved. As you see now, it can just as easily happen again."

She lowers her hand, crumpling the note in disgust.

"I will butcher him," she vows, her eyes gleaming with something primitive from deep within. "I will take that man and I will make him scream. I will make him beg for mercy and I will-" she breaks off, clearly with an effort, and reins in the obvious death lust that shines in her eyes. "Is there anything here?" she wants to know. "Anything they left behind that we haven't managed to touch yet?"

I flash back to Donovan, lifeless on the basement floor, and swallow.

"The darts . . . I took Bella's out but the dogs still have theirs in place. Maybe a fingerprint . . ?"

A tissue is retrieved and Archie is permitted to wash Emily's face so he can be held still long enough to remove the dart. Then Mike goes down into the basement and seems to take a little longer than I'd have expected he normally would before he carries his dog upstairs, and I am able to see in his face that he is trying to hide how this is affecting him.

Squeezing Emily against my hip I reach over and lay a hand on my husband's wrist as he settles Donovan onto the kitchen table to have the dart extracted.

"It's okay," I say quietly. "You want to cry? Go ahead."

He smiles, embarrassed.

"He- I know it's probably stupid. But he . . . he still should have had a couple years left, and he's had so many with us already that I- I don't know. He just . . ." he swallows hard and squeezes my hand. "He was ours, you know? But I'm fine. I'll be fine. Emily's here, and she's safe," he turns to ruffle her silky sun-kissed head and smile at her, "and that's what matters."

I nod, and my daughter and I snuggle close to him as Mom gently extracts Donovan's dart as well, and then, on the verge of dropping it into the Ziploc baggie Dad holds, frowns.

"Well," she says in a 'hello, there' voice. "Well. Look at this." She takes a second to relinquish the dart to Dad and then bends down and examines Donovan's jowls thoughtfully. "I don't suppose you're in the habit of feeding them a blood meal, now, are you, Sydney?"

I shake my head, bewildered at the apparent absurdity of the question, and she merely smiles with grim satisfaction. "Then he took a piece out of somebody tonight," she declares, and points to the scarlet speckles that dot his muzzle. "I think we can at least narrow things down a bit now; at least one of the people who came here tonight is now a bit of a gimp."

Mike looks away for a second, jaw working, before he turns back to face me again, recalling himself to the here and now with evident mastery of his emotions.

"Better go in and check on Bella," he decides quietly, so we do, trooping down the hallway and into the living room where she is still stretched out on the couch, pale and still, though not nearly so pale as she was when I first found her, a sight that reassures me still farther.

Dad manages to bring her around, but she's quite groggy once he's done so, and despite our efforts at questioning her she remains so.

"They just had masks," she says blearily when we question her as to the identities of the intruders. She sounds for all the world as if she's trying to fight her way through a dense fog. "Masks - black ski masks - and guns. Big . . . big, black guns. Like you see on TV . . . Archie- they shot Archie first. He was running toward them, so they shot him . . . fast. So he couldn't bite them, I guess, but- but it didn't work because they must have missed Donovan. He was right behind him - Archie - and he bit one, before they could stop him, and I think he'd have bit them more but they shot him before he could. Then they shot me. And- and that's it." She focuses on Emily, now sound asleep in my arms, and manages a weak little smile.

"Oh, good. She's okay . . ."

I am only able to nod in mute confirmation of the observation as Dad gently helps Bella sit up and Mom brings her coat in to her, wrapping it snugly around her.

"Mr. Vaughn will take you home," she tells her gently- remarkably gently, for all that she was uttering death threats just moments before. "We'll settle this matter with your parents tomorrow, of course, but for tonight I think that we should just get you into bed."

Bella doesn't disagree with her, and before Mike takes her out to the car to drive her back home he turns and faces me with notable determination.

"Better get packed," he says quietly. I blink, surprised, but he remains firm. "We're not staying here tonight," he insists, and Mom and Dad back him wholeheartedly.

"You'll stay with us," Dad says resolutely. "All three of you. You two can have the guest room and we'll pack Emily's playpen up for her to sleep in. Safety in numbers, if you like, or just plain peace of mind for us, but however you look at it, you can't stay here tonight."

I would argue if I wasn't so convinced that they were right, but as matters stand, I can't see how what they say is not the absolute truth. So as Mike is off driving Bella back home, Mom accompanies me upstairs and packs up some things for us at my direction; I'm not about to put my daughter down long enough to do so myself. We've just finished packing for Emily also when Dad mounts the stairs to announce that he has finally located Francie, concealed quite nicely on top of the fridge.

"I tried to get her down, but she bit me," he observes mildly, and displays a hand dripping blood for all to see. "I think she reached the bone."

He doesn't sound at all alarmed about this, but the cut is a rather nasty one, so since Emily's bags are now packed, my daughter and I help Dad bandage his hand, leaving Mom to shuffle everything downstairs and into the car. Then I zip Emily into her snowsuit as Dad leashes Archie, and Mom takes it upon herself to wrap Donovan's body in a garbage bag, tucking him almost tenderly under her arm.

"Poor old fellow," she observes mildly, without overt sentimentality but noticeable pity. "You were just doing your job right down to the end, weren't you?"

That suitably remarked upon, she then surveys the house critically.

"Well," she sighs, "I can't say it's the tidiest I've ever seen it, but at least nothing's broken, except the lock." She inspects the door, then instructs me to at least lock the deadbolt on our way out, which I do obediently.

"Mike can meet us at the apartment," she decides as Dad gently tugs Archie toward the car and I buckle Emily into the backseat. "I hate to even suggest this, but Sydney, do you think we could put him in the shed?" I glance back and realise she is talking about the contents of the garbage bag she holds. "I know it seems a little heartless of me to say it, especially given the . . . manner in which he died, but what else can we really do, at least until morning?"

When Mom asks a question in that manner, it means she already knows the answer. In this case, of course, we all do- yes, it seems a rather heartless albeit temporary solution, but she is right. There is really nothing else we can do. She continues to speak, her tones mild and explanatory.

"You can take him to the vet's then, when they open, and arrange for . . . for cremation, or whatever it is that's done in the winter."

I consider this, then nod slowly.

"All right . . . there's a box at the back of the shed with some old quilts in it that I meant to take to the Salvation Army but never got around to actually moving. Anyway . . . you could wrap him up in those, I guess, and leave him in the box in the shed until tomorrow. It's cold enough out so it will act as a freezer, but . . . I think Mike will want to bury him. Somehow. I just- I just think he will."

Mom nods sympathetic comprehension, and heads around back to do as I've suggested. This leaves me to climb into the back of the car beside Emily, who already has Archie valiantly guarding her from his self-assumed position on the other side of the car seat. Dad is still standing outside, waiting for Mom to return from her duties, so for the moment I am comparatively alone. Just my daughter, my dog and my unborn baby. And me, of course.

I stare at Archie for a moment, and he stares back. I blink, and so does he. Then, suddenly, I'm sobbing uncontrollably, and he is whining and fidgeting anxiously in the tight confines of the backseat, shifting his bulk, fighting to stretch his head across Emily's car seat so he can reach my face and grace it with many kisses. I finish crying, then start to hiccup as stray tears continue to fall, but Archie takes care of those quickly, and although his breath has to be worst I've ever smelled I am absurdly, in some odd little fashion, grateful to him for doing it. It's something I need; that warmth, and that touch. That reassurance that I am still here, and I am alive, and for now, that's enough.

The tears finally stop falling as Mom and Dad get into the car, and I try to wipe most of the dog slobber off of my cheeks as Dad shifts into gear and we roll out of the driveway and down the street, leaving the house behind.

000

When we reach Mom and Dad's apartment building we see that Mike has already arrived, minus Bella. He's parked in a vacant spot and when he sees us he gets out of the car, locking it behind him and jogging over to help me out once Dad has parked as well.

He takes Emily out of her seat and I don't argue, figuring that he's her father and he deserves to make sure she's okay as well. Instead I lean in and get Archie out myself, rubbing behind his ears and making nice noises at him. Mom gets the bags, Dad gets the playpen and we all make our way up the side walkway to the front doors, an odd little party at going on midnight. I'm just absurdly glad that the majority of the inhabitants of their apartment already seem to be in bed by now, so there is nobody about to observe us.

Dad turns his key in the door - the Allison Central Arms is, incidentally, the most fortified security apartment building in all of Sackville, chosen four years ago by my father as his residence for just that reason - and the lock clicks back, allowing us in. Some juggling and rearranging is seen to and we make it inside, playpen, luggage, dog, baby and all, and up the stairs towards Mom and Dad's apartment door.

Once we make it into the apartment Mom takes charge of Emily, promising to change her diaper and get her dressed in a clean sleeper while Dad wrestles all of our things into the guest room and Mike and I change as well. Mom manages to orchestrate all of this in such a way that we're all halfway through our assigned tasks before we even realise we've been manipulated, and by the time we do, it would really just be silly to go back and argue anyway. My mother is unique like that.

She's also very good with Emily. She doesn't make silly faces or talk baby talk to her like the rest of us do, but she speaks in soft, low tones, often in Russian, and Emily loves to listen to her. She fixes dark, green-flecked brown eyes on Mom's face and clings to every unintelligible syllable, a blissful little smile on her face. When Mom has diapered and dressed her, rather than bringing her in to see Mike and me she takes her into the living room and they look out the window onto the lights that twinkle beyond. There aren't many, but there are enough, and Emily is cooing contentedly when I wander out to find them, now wrapped up in one of Mike's T-shirts and a pair of pyjama pants that offer maximum comfort for my increasing stomach.

"What are you guys looking at?" I want to know, and Mom turns, smiling quietly at me, the glow from the distant streetlights bathing the side of her face a gentle orange.

"Just the night," she murmurs with what is still her trademark ambiguity, smiling down at my sleepy daughter. "You used to love looking out at the lights when you were a baby. Our apartment in Langley had a nice view and you just adored those streetlights . . . you used to reach out and try to touch them."

Almost as if she hears what Mom is saying and understands it, Emily takes this as her cue to do the same, stretching out a chubby little hand and groping at the air. Mom, seeing, laughs gently and I have to smile too.

"Was I . . ." I grope for the right words. "Like she is when I was little?"

Mom appears to consider this and looks down, smoothing back Emily's hair as she answers thoughtfully.

"Well, that's a very interesting question, sweetheart. I don't know, exactly, what you mean by it. If you mean in regards to development, no, not really. You were much more advanced in your motor skills when you were her age, but then, all babies are different in that respect, so I hardly think that's what you meant, is it?"

I admit it's not, and she nods.

"Well, what do you mean, then? Obviously not physically- she doesn't really take after either of you in that regard, either, does she? Not since she was just tiny. Her colouring, perhaps, but really . . ."

And again I agree that really it has become more apparent as she's grown that Emily's facial and bone structure is going to end up being far closer to my parents' than either mine or Mike's.

"Then what," Mom wants to know, shifting Emily slightly so she can rest her wavy golden head against her grandmother's shoulder, "do you mean?"

"Well . . ." I try to think my words out. "How was I? Like . . . does she have any little . . . mannerisms that I did? Does she play any games that you or Dad might have taught me? I- I don't really know much about what I was like when I was a baby, and- and having my own kind of makes me wonder, is all."

Mom nods her comprehension, steals a glance at Emily, who is drifting off, then looks back up to answer.

"Well, she does seem to be particularly enchanted with mirrors, and so were you when you were very little. You went through a phase where you kept trying to sneak up on your reflection without it seeing you- your father and I got to a point where we thought you and your stalking techniques were more entertaining than television."

She smiles faintly at the memory, and I have to giggle as well. Then she shakes her head, expression growing wistful as memory appears to overtake her.

"You were always so independent. Even when you were just little. The second you realised your feet weren't just for chewing on, you got them under you and you were off and running. You realised they could take you places, I think, and you were always so intensely curious about things that I think you must have realised what an asset walking would be. Then you started climbing, of course, so when you turned three we enrolled you in gymnastics and let things go from there. But even before that . . . well, you were just you, Sydney." She favours me with a gentle smile. "You were unique, and we were proud of you and so delighted no matter what you decided to do. If you scribbled all over the walls, we saw you as a budding Rembrandt. If you sat and stared at something for hours at a time - and you did a lot of that at times - we praised your focus and concentration. We could get rather foolish, at times," her lips twist in wry remembrance, "but we were just so thrilled with you. And now, seeing you and Michael with Emily," she moves to gently transfer my sleeping daughter to my own arms, "it just takes me back to the way things were for us. Only this time," a steely glint once more emanates from her eyes, her tones laced with something deadly, "it's not going to end in tragedy."

I shiver involuntarily at the venom in her voice, then it occurs to me to ask,

"Do you think that you and Dad ended in tragedy, then?"

"Oh, Sydney, no!" she is shocked from her urge to kill by the sheer surprise generated by my words. "No, of course not, that . . . came out wrong. I'm . . . happy here. So very happy. This is what I've been waiting for - wanting - for so many years. But I do think the fact that your father and I had to wait as long as we did before we could pick up and get back to our lives together was, to some degree, tragic, yes. I'm sorry you were cheated of all those years that I should have been there for you, and I'm just determined to see that Emily isn't deprived of the same things you were."

I nod, understanding the sentiment perfectly, seeing as it's my own as well. Then Mom smiles at me, perhaps a trifle too brightly, and suggests,

"Now, why don't you take our little angel in and put her to bed, all right? And I'm sure you must be exhausted, too- you and Mike should get some sleep. I think," her tones become more grave, "that you'll find you're going to profit by it in the days ahead."

000

She's right, of course. My mother always is. But I don't always listen to her, so when I get back to the guest room, after I tuck Emily into the playpen I climb under the covers beside my husband and just stare up into the darkness where I know the ceiling is for a few minutes, not really fighting sleep but certainly not actively seeking it either. After a brief interim has passed, though, Mike's voice comes to me from the darkness, low, soft and suspiciously scratchy.

"Sydney?"

"Mmm?"

A pause. Then, softly,

"Nothing."

I sigh, turning over onto my side and letting my eyes adjust to take in his profile, sharply etched in black against the lighter, blue-black haze beyond the muslin sheers that decorate all of Mom and Dad's windows.

"Michael, if you want to talk . . ."

"No," he sounds calm enough, but he's lying more rigidly than I've ever known him to, except perhaps for that one time when I woke up and told him that the pains had started. It's his way of dealing with stress beyond his ability to comprehend, I think. So I smile, reach over and lay my hand on his chest, gently pressing down, willing him to relax under the weight of my presence.

"Look. Michael. I know you're a lot better than Dad at saying what you feel, but you're still not exactly that communicative when the issue is something this . . . personal. So I just want you to know that I'm awake, I'm not going anywhere, and I'm listening to you."

He sighs, and for a minute I think he's going to dismiss me again, but instead he remains silent for another period of time before finally speaking up.

"Did I ever tell you how I got him?"

I know which 'him' he means.

"He was a present, wasn't he? From your mother?"

"From my mother. She'd given me two sweaters, nine pairs of socks and umpteen mittens for Christmas that year . . . it was right after her gall bladder surgery and she'd been lying in bed with nothing to do but crochet and knit. I guess I wasn't maybe as delighted with the gifts as I should have been but really, I was just so relieved she hadn't given me a doily that I didn't really bother to say much but thank you. So after she was up and about again, she started phoning around and . . . one day she shows up on my doorstep with this box. It's not that big but it's making scratching sounds and my first thought is oh great she's gotten me a kitten, which really made no sense because my mother really hates cats. But that's what I thought, and then I opened it, and . . . it was Donovan. He was just sitting there, looking up at me, like he wasn't sure what was going on, and I guess I kinda looked like that too because Mum started to explain. She told me she knew that the knitted things had been a mistake, and he was supposed to make up for them, because she knew I hadn't had a dog since high school. And she was right, I hadn't. Only until she gave him to me, I didn't realise how much I'd wanted one again."

He is silent for another moment, then sighs.

"He made me feel normal, you know? Like I was just a regular guy with a regular life. I mean, I had a dog so I had to be normal, right? And so I didn't go in much for obedience training but he was better than Eric's dog, at least- Eric's dog was barely even housetrained. And . . . well, he was just a really nice dog. I know he dragged you up and down the streets," he contrives to sound apologetic, "but he was never vicious or anything . . . not with us, anyway. And he adored Emily- you know he did."

I nod; I do.

"So I guess . . . well . . ." he sighs. "I guess I'm just going to miss him."

I smile into the darkness, reaching over to catch hold of his hand and give it a firm squeeze.

"I know you are," I say quietly. "And Mike, we're going to find them. Whoever they are . . . we're going to find them, and if you want to plug them full of tranq darts when we do . . ."

"Sydney," he is gentle but unmistakably reproachful, and I have the grace to blush.

"Okay. Sorry. But still . . . you know?"

He smiles as well; I can feel it.

"I do," he agrees, trailing one hand up my arm until it reaches my shoulder, which he squeezes fondly. "I do. And for what it's worth," a light kiss finds the corner of my mouth, "I love you all the more for it."

000

I wake up only once more that night, just shortly before dawn. I'm not sure of the exact time, but the sky beyond the windows had turned from a deep blue black to a watery, blue-tinted grey so I know that sunrise can't be that far off.

At first I'm not sure what's woken me up, but at the sound of a creak from the corner of the room I stiffen and sit bolt upright, squinting in the shadows to try to see what caused the sound.

"Hello?" I'm embarrassed at how scratchy and almost frightened my voice sounds. "Is someone-"

"It's just me, Sydney," Dad speaks so calmly that I almost nod and say of course it is, who else would it be? But I catch myself in time and sputter for a moment before questioning him further.

"What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"No," he speaks evenly; almost gently. "Nothing is wrong, and I'm here to make sure that that doesn't change."

He shifts in his chair and I see that he is holding his gun, a semi that has been with him for longer than I have. I sigh, and open my mouth to ask if it's really necessary, but he beats me to the punch.

"Go back to sleep, Sydney. Your mother's sitting up too; you don't have to worry. We're not going to let anything happen to any of you."

I hesitate, torn momentarily between compliance and debate, until Dad speaks again.

"Sleep, Sydney," he repeats softly; almost hypnotically. "Go back to sleep."

And, as if I am just two years old again instead of a full grown woman with her husband lying beside her; as if Dad has only just walked the nursery floors with me in his arms and is lulling me back to sleep after some particularly hideous nightmare, I let my head fall back into the softness of my pillow and meekly do just that.

000

000

And thus concludeth another chapter that just broke my heart to write. I so badly didn't want Donovan to be dead, but I started adding up the years and realised that, given the lifespan of the English Bulldog, he was going to have to go soon anyway, so I decided to make it on my own terms. I just wish that it hadn't had to happen now.

Aside from the element of tragedy, though, I hope that this chapter suits, and even if it doesn't I hope that it at least doesn't repel entirely! As I said, I have a weekend coming up so I should manage to write a bit more in between essays and studying for my midterms. Actually, I think that this will probably be a welcome excuse to put all of that off for the next little while!

Check back soon for more!


	17. Chapter Sixteen

****

Smoke Screen

By Andrea Horton

-I had a very nice e-mail from a very nice lady reminding me that this was languishing here. Beth, thank you! I've decided that plotting isn't worth the time. I'm sick and tired of unfinished fics and I've decided I want to finish it! It's rushed, it's patchy and it feels contrived to me, but it. Is. Done. And right now that's what's making me happy.

000

000

I wake up only once more that night, just shortly before dawn. I'm not sure of the exact time, but the sky beyond the windows had turned from a deep blue black to a watery, blue-tinted grey so I know that sunrise can't be that far off.

At first I'm not sure what's woken me up, but at the sound of a creak from the corner of the room I stiffen and sit bolt upright, squinting in the shadows to try to see what caused the sound.

"Hello?" I'm embarrassed at how scratchy and almost frightened my voice sounds. "Is someone-"

"It's just me, Sydney," Dad speaks so calmly that I almost nod and say of course it is, who else would it be? But I catch myself in time and sputter for a moment before questioning him further.

"What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"

"No," he speaks evenly; almost gently. "Nothing is wrong, and I'm here to make sure that that doesn't change."

He shifts in his chair and I see that he is holding his gun, a semi that has been with him for longer than I have. I sigh, and open my mouth to ask if it's really necessary, but he beats me to the punch.

"Go back to sleep, Sydney. Your mother's sitting up too; you don't have to worry. We're not going to let anything happen to any of you."

I hesitate, torn momentarily between compliance and debate, until Dad speaks again.

"Sleep, Sydney," he repeats softly; almost hypnotically. "Go back to sleep."

And, as if I am just two years old again instead of a full grown woman with her husband lying beside her; as if Dad has only just walked the nursery floors with me in his arms and is lulling me back to sleep after some particularly hideous nightmare, I let my head fall back into the softness of my pillow and meekly do just that.

000

The remaining months of my pregnancy pass as a sort of prison term. It's an awful way to put it, and I hope my child never knows what I think of the final months I'm spending with him/her interred inside me, but there you have it. I'm trapped. The concern of my parents and husband is almost suffocating in its intensity, and from the night of the break-in on, especially when a search of the local hotels turns up only the information that a man of Sloane's description checked out the night before, they appear to have decided that my existence has to change.

Together the three of them – sadistic fiends that they are – put into effect a complex schedule that basically requires both Emily and me to be under constant surveillance. _Their_ surveillance. If I'm not with Mike at home, I'm with Mom shopping. If I'm not shopping with Mom, I'm out for a walk with Dad. If I'm not walking with Dad, I'll be back at home with Mike. I'm never alone. Even the bathroom isn't sacred- although Mike waits outside, and Dad does too, Mom refuses; in public washrooms she won't even wait outside the _stall_. Apparently danger can lurk in the ventilation ducts. After three trips to the mall when I fall prey to the demands of my bladder, I put my foot down and refuse to shop with Mom anymore.

I mean, honestly. Take the frustration you, as a thirty-something woman, would feel at having your mother accompany you into the handicapped stall in full view of everyone in the washroom, multiply that by a thousand, and you may begin to understand where I was two months ago. I am not. Allowed. To _live_. Even more embarrassing is when I have to call Michael in from the hallway to help me out of the toilet that I got stuck in when he forgot to lower the seat- my belly is too big to allow me to budge on my own. By the time of the spring thaw, I more than have cabin fever- I'm bordering on terminal with it.

"I'm sick and tired of everybody pretending I'm as helpless as Emily!" I growl to Lisa, as I dig viciously into the garden out back in late May. "I'm a grown woman and I've handled a lot in my life, and if they think I can't handle myself with this . . . _whoever_ hanging around, then I've got half a mind to leave all three of them and start fresh in Alaska."

"Oh, not Alaska," Lisa observes mildly, watching one of her dogs tree a chipmunk, and then look inordinately pleased with herself. "You wouldn't get health care. Maybe Nunavut?"

"Sure," I scowl, ripping out a baby goldenrod so viciously I leave its roots behind, "Nunavut. Sounds good to me." Then, as I poke around to retrieve the bottom half of the weed, I ask after her husband, and she asks after mine, and everything is so normal again I want to vomit.

I do, in fact, throw up that night, and then the night after. For some reason my stomach has become less settled again lately, as if my third trimester thinks it's my first all over again. As I crouch in the bathroom and get rid of a perfectly decent supper I ate two hours before, Mike holds my hand and wipes my forehead until I'm so enraged by his niceness that I scream at him to leave me alone. He doesn't, exactly; he retreats a few feet toward the tub, then settles down to the floor to watch me as I kneel over the toilet bowl and sob bitterly into its depths. For a while there is only the sound of my own frustrations boiling over, and then he breaks it as gently as he knows how.

"Sydney," he speaks softly, "I know this isn't easy for you. I do know that. I've watched you over the past three months and I've seen what it's doing to you. I can't tell you how proud I am of how well you've dealt with everything we've pretty well forced on you. You're- I don't know, you're stronger, somehow, than I expected you to be. It's one thing to be the sort of person who can lash out whenever anything goes wrong, but the person who can bear up under this kind of pressure and not crack or complain is . . . she's just amazing, Sydney, and to see you be that kind of person just blows my mind. You've taken everything we've put on you. You're . . . incredible, and I love you. That's all there is to it."

I want to bite him. I do. The frustration and the anger and the futility of even experiencing it make me want to snap at him; to hurt him and make him sorry. He's too far away, though, and not just physically; he's too calm for me to rattle, either, and the full significance of that doesn't strike me until I'm wiping my face and reaching for the taps to rinse out my mouth.

He's calm.

My husband, who has been a nervous wreck ever since his dog was killed by a tranq dart that could just as easily have been meant for me, is calm. I whirl on him, my eyes narrowing and stomach still churning.

"Michael?"

He blinks up at me.

"Hmm, Syd?"

"Michael do you know something?"

"I know a lot of things, Sydney, I'm a teacher."

"VAUGHN!"

He smiles and stands as well, and the glow in his face makes my stomach quiver for another reason. I haven't felt hope – wild, pure, exhilarating hope – in so long I almost don't recognise it at first.

"Your father called when you came up here after dinner. He said they may have a lead- someone in Moncton answered the ads he's been putting out. They saw someone matching Sloane's description near the Château Moncton last week. Your parents have gone to check it out."

"But I thought they had already checked-"

"They did, but they think it's a reasonable assumption that if Sloane is nearby, he wouldn't stay in one place for very long. It wouldn't be smart. Not with your parents after him." A light gleams in his eyes, and I feel my own must be shining too at the thought of finally ending this madness I've been enduring, on some level or another, since the day I was born.

"So when will we-"

"They'll call. We just have to wait, and they'll call."

On the strength of that assurance, I let him help me back to bed. We cuddle together for the first time in weeks, and I'm too tired from the strain of giving in so much to remember I'm still mad at him for being so good to me.

000

The tip in Moncton comes to nothing in the end, but I don't consider it a bad thing because the hope it provided lingers on. There's something amazing about catching a glimpse of the finish line; it's as if having the end in sight makes the race twice as easy to run. Sloane gone; that has become our shared goal. We've all of us now lost too much to him to let go, and I'm glad to not take a good step back and look at what we've become, because I don't think I'd like what I see.

We're all a little too determined; a little too driven. That sort of zeal can be all-consuming, and if I'm going to be honest, we aren't pointing it at someone worth that much energy. But the children I take outside with me in the second week of June – both the one in my arms and the one weighing me down to the point where I now feel like some pregnant water buffalo – are definitely worth it to me.

The little person kicking about in my belly is now officially one week past the due date, and I am walking around the house and yard a lot now in an effort to get the darn thing out of me, and avoid the C-section my doctor recommended on my last visit. I have too many scars lingering from a life I'd rather forget to want to obtain one from the life I love, too.

Emily, now fifteen months old, is a far more active little monkey than any of us could ever have imagined she'd be, and she stretches her arms out gleefully to catch the sunlight as I carry her around the backyard to watch the lilacs coming to bud. She rests against my stomach and clutches greedily at the tiny, dark purple nibs, and I hold her until I can no longer ignore the persistent twinges in my lower back and, tired of the combined weight, have to set her down. She walks, now; not steadily, and not without falling, but she walks, and I'm saddened when I realise that the event of her first steps passed without so much as a photo.

"You deserve better," I tell her, and she looks up at me, beaming in blissful ignorance, to hold up a fistful of crushed purple buds that will never become flowers.

"Pitty!" she tells me, and I agree that they are very pretty, so she staggers off to find something else 'pitty' to show me. I follow her more slowly, and the first scent of summer hits me; lilacs, starting to wake up, releasing their heady aroma and starting the season off with sweetness and colour.

"Mmm," I smile, reaching back to rub at my back, willing it to stop nagging me and let me enjoy the day. "Look, Emily, look at this flower here. It's such a lovely- ooh!" I break off, my eyes widening, and clutch at my back again, and then at my stomach. The door clatters and Mike is down the steps and across the lawn, abandoning the dishes he was doing in favour of holding me up before I even realise my knees are giving out.

"What the-" I blink, and then, comically enough, the light dawns just as my water breaks. "Okay," I laugh, nervous and excited and soaking wet all at once, "okay, we need to get to the-"

"Hospital, I know," he smiles down at me, and for just that moment we're a couple of people having a baby and nothing more. It's the sweetest feeling I could ever ask for, and it gives me the strength to collect Emily and buckle her in the car seat while Mike grabs my bag, calls Mom and Dad, and then gets in behind the wheel of the car.

"Your father came while you were out back and took Archie for a walk. Your mother paged him, and she's going to meet us at the hospital."

I nod, rubbing my belly and trying to focus on breathing. Dad has been coming by a lot more often lately, on the pretence that he wants to walk Archie. He says he just likes spending time with him, but I suspect he only wants to make sure Mike is doing the job Dad secretly believes he could do better himself, namely, guarding me.

Emily, buckled into her baby seat, munches on some grass she brought into the car with her, and Mike takes the time to make her spit it out before we back down the drive and head for the hospital as fast as we can in a family neighbourhood.

Mom meets us when we get to the hospital, and she's glowing so that I hardly recognise her. She helps me out of the front seat while Mike gets Emily, and the four of us make an odd picture as we head into the hospital to be met by a smiling nurse with a wheelchair.

"Here we are, now!" she chirps brightly, helping me sit down. "Now, in we go!"

I want to ask her if we could possibly stop being so cheery, but Mike catches the look on my face and squeezes my hand, so I stay silent, albeit sulkily so.

I am wheeled into a room Mike and I picked out ages ago; a pretty little one with wallpaper, curtains and a nice colour scheme that would make it almost feel like a hotel if it weren't for the hospital bed. Mom and Mike won't let the nurse gown me- they insist on doing so themselves, and they also help me into bed themselves, but the nurse gets to suction cup me to some elaborate contraption that's supposed to measure my contractions, so I'm sure she doesn't feel too left out, and I decide not to tell her that if she wants to really know when I'm having my contractions all she has to do is ask; it isn't as if I'm going to miss one of them, after all.

The sweetest relief comes when the nurse leaves the room, and Mom chases Mike and Emily out the door so she can (she claims) dispense some maternal wisdom without an audience. Once my husband and daughter have left, she turns to me, smiles cheerfully and pats my hand.

"Now, sweetheart, I know that the art of the epidural has progressed light years from where it was when I was giving birth to you, but still, I want to let you know that if you decide to rip the doctor's head from his shoulders at some point during the processthere isn't a jury in the world with one mother on it who could possibly convict you."

I blink at her.

"Um . . . thanks, Mom. Was that the advice?"

"No, though I did think it bore mentioning. The advice is to scream."

"Scream?"

"Yes. Much better out than in."

I have to laugh, but am cut off mid-giggle by another contraction. Mom, seeing me tense, pats me again in the most motherly way imaginable.

"Go on, then, Sydney- scream!"

I feel a little foolish, but I do let out a half-hearted squeal. Mom rolls her eyes, tells me I'll be less inhibited by the time the night is over, and leaves me to seek out Mike, and tell him he can come back in.

000

Well I didn't think I'd do it when she first suggested it, but about one more hour into my labour, I'm letting go some pretty gusty screams and it actually feels pretty good. It's also easier than squeezing Mike's hand to the fracture-point, which is what I did when I was giving birth to Emily. That, and I also destroyed a perfectly good video camera in the process, so I'm trying to be a bit more self-possessed this time around.

Except for the screaming. I enjoy the screaming.

Not so the people in the rooms around me, who have already asked that my door be shut so they can try to get some rest. I had no idea I was such a great screamer until now; even Mom has invested in ear plugs for herself and Mike, and as she tries to get hold of Dad I take full advantage of my lungs. Emily, traumatised by the shrieking, was removed by about three cooing nurses over thirty minutes ago, and I think that was when I really started to enjoy myself. I'm still screaming when Dr. Stewart comes in to inspect me yet again, and announces it's time to push.

I scream at her, and she says to save some energy for pushing, so I stop screaming while the nurses come in to help me get settled into the stirrups, and then I think I sort of psychologically block out a lot of what goes on next, because it all seems to reach me in fits and spurts. Mike is so reassuring I scream at him, too, just to let him know that I'm not looking for empathy from the one person in the room who has never gone and never will go through this.

Mom is so calm I can't believe she's actually watching me at all, much less hearing me. She lets me squeeze her hand much harder than I ever squeezed Mike's when Emily was born, and she doesn't so much as flinch. It's only when her cell rings just as I'm told to bear down again that she loses that inscrutable tranquillity in favour of vague bewilderment. She checks the name on her phone, then flips it open.

"Jack, where in the world-" she stops, listening, and her eyes widen and her head snaps up. "What? How long ago?" A pause. Then, her growl lethal, "Where?"

I look up mid-push, confused.

"Mom?"

She waves my query away impatiently, focusing on her conversation. There's a look in her eyes I don't like. It's that gleam that's less my mother, and more my father's wife; that woman who is both his hunting partner and his exquisitely lethal equal. While I still love that part of her dearly, it scares me more, and I bite down on a scream as I push again, Dr. Stewart's voice no more than a pleasant buzz in the background compared to Mom's clipped questions.

"How long ago was this? And you're where? With- Jack, no. He's not- _Jonathan_. You _will_ hear me. He is _not_ trained for this. This man is- Jack? _Jack_!" Her fury is so palpable the air around her seems poisoned with it. She looks up at me, and I can't help but flinch at the look of her as she growls, "Your . . . _father_, Sydney, has hung up on me."

"More fool him, then," I pant, then break into another delicious scream as Dr. Stewart instructs me to push again.

"Indeed," Mom says, and her eyes glitter eerily for a moment before she seems to remember where she is, and transforms once more into my soft, sweet, cookie-baking mother who pats my hand and urges me to scream a few times more, if I feel like it.

I do feel like it, but as it turns out I only have time for one more scream because, as Dr. Stewart so aptly put it, "this is it!" She's smiling reassuringly at me, almost as competent as Mom. "One big one, now, Sydney, I know you can do it."

I doubt her, I must confess, but I push all the same. The entire area below my waist is far from numb; I refused the epidural in favour of a milder, IV-administered agent, and now I'm starting to regret it. Mom is smiling at me, though, and there's a wealth of knowing behind that smile that reassures me to a point I can't quite describe. The peace that rushes over me then is so intense I almost stop pushing; the agony shooting up my back dulls to a gentle throb, and suddenly it seems the work of a moment to finish the task Dr. Stewart has given me.

Now I'm collapsing back against the pillow, Mike's and Mom's hands mangled within my own, as Dr. Stewart beams at me from over a bloodstained blanket and tells me I have a son.

William.

Sweet William, welcome.

He's crying.

So am I.

So is Mike, for that matter, and Mom's own eyes are wet as she looks down at the dirty, dark red little creature being hastily wrapped and deposited on my chest for the briefest of moments to be touched, kissed and marvelled at before he's whisked away to be cleaned up properly. Then I have a minute or two to catch my breath before he's brought back, pink, clean, new and bundled up so small I can hardly believe he's real. I have to touch him, just to be sure. But there he is. My William.

He's unearthly beautiful to me, the remnants of his origin still glowing about him, something too perfect and pure to be here. He's completely untouched by everything that has plagued me since my own birth, and suddenly, with perfect clarity, I know what Dad has gone to do. I look up at Mom, fearful, but there is nothing in her face save admiration and awe that I'm sure is mirrored on every face in the room for the perfect newness cradled on my chest. Shivering, I look back down at my wrinkled little fellow, and he mouths sleepily at the air, making me laugh through the tears that still coat my cheeks. There is surely nobody on Earth closer to God than the child who has just left Him nine months ago.

William, apparently deciding he's content to remain where he is, drifts off to sleep, and I am still crying and Mike and I touch him, our fingers bumping into one another as they explore the minute features of what we've done.

"Hey, there, little guy," Mike's voice is husky. "You better get lots of sleep . . . rest up for this winter, and you can come out to the rink with me."

"What's he going to wear," I laugh, "one of your skates?" And Mike smiles, because everything is to perfect not to. Emily is sent for, and brought in to see her baby brother, and she looks at us in such bewilderment that we all start to laugh.

"See that, Emily?" I whisper. "See, Em, that's the baby!"

"Beebee?" she studies him dubiously, and I have a momentary glimpse of all that is to come. It fills me with a sort of weary joy, and I start to cry again, from how right this is.

We're huddled together around William, a sort of breathless crowd of admirers, when a distant commotion reaches us through the now-open door. It draws closer, and I begin to make out words.

"Sir, you can't bring that animal in here, we're a sanitary environ- Sir! Sir, I really must insist that you- Sir!"

Then Dad is here; Dad, and Archie, who is limping; Archie, limping, led by Dad, who is scratched, dirty but alive. He stares at us for a minute, then nods, as if this was all he needed to know. Mom straightens up, clasping her hands under her chin, her tears reappearing for a different reason.

"You stubborn old fool," she whispers, then she's across the room and in his arms, her lips pressed to his as if the very breath in his lungs were her last hope for survival. Mike and I watch them, and Emily reaches hopefully for her Grandpa, who sometimes gives her airplane rides. It's Grandma, though, who is getting the attention right now, and when they break the kiss it's surely only because they're run out of breaths to trade.

"Did you get him?" I didn't want to ask but now I have to, and Dad looks at me, very old and broken.

"I got him," he nods once. "I . . . pulled some strings I'd promised myself I wouldn't, and I was able to make sure he knew . . . where you were today. I had a feeling it would be the baby that brought him out. It was too perfect. After that it was easy for me to know he'd be . . . on a certain road at a certain time." He looks down blankly at Archie, who is leaning against him and panting heavily. "I had Archie run out on the road when I saw the car coming . . . it swerved to miss him, and they went off. It clipped him, I think." He rubs Archie's head tenderly. "He'll need his ribs taped."

"He'll get them," I nod, looking at the big dog and seeing less of the silliness that had been there only days before. There was pain, yes, but a new purpose, as well. He looked up at Dad with the sort of trust Donovan had used to display for Mike, and I smile as I know what I'm going to do.

"Maybe," I suggest gently, "you could take Archie home with you. After his ribs are taped, of course. I just think that if he would run out into traffic for you, Dad . . . that's the sort of dog you deserve to have around."

Dad looks down at Archie again, and there is no hesitation as he nods and pats him again.

"It is," he decides, then swallows, remembering where he left off with his story. "After the car went off, I- they weren't dead but they were . . . on their way. Sloane was . . . conscious. The driver wasn't. But they were both . . . dying. So- I stayed. I- I watched. I had to. I couldn't leave it . . . not knowing . . ." He swallows, then looks up, and his eyes fasten on the tiny bundle I'm holding. He swallows, clearly reluctant to bring the contamination of what he's just done any closer, but asks all the same, "Is it . . ."

"William Jonathan Vaughn," I nod, "just like we planned."

Dad sighs, and for the first time since he appeared in the doorway, he smiles.

"I didn't want . . ." he tries to explain. "I know we'd agreed we wouldn't- wouldn't actually do anything that . . . but . . . Emily's already suffered for what we were. I didn't want . . . William to, too."

"And now," I brush a fold of the blanket away from my son's tiny, pinched face, "he won't have to."

"Come on, Jack," Mom slips her hand into his and gently guides him over to the bed, "come and meet your grandson."

000

End

000

Well, that's that. I'm both disappointed and relieved. I'm disappointed because it wasn't what I had planned – a lot more rushed, to tell you the truth, and consequently not half as satisfying for me – but relieved because it's over (for the record, what I had planned was also completely unrealistic and I was taking so long to write it because I wanted to plan something better, but in the end I just decide I wanted this done).

Everybody has been amazing throughout this, what with pokes, prods and reminders coupled with encouragement, so I really do want to thank every one of you from the bottom of my heart. This series of fics was started at a much different period in my life, so towards the end finishing it became more of a chore than a pleasure. Alias has changed so much since I began this 'Sackville series' that, even if my versions of the characters ever did slightly resemble what they once were on the show, they're now so far removed from them that watching the show can't even inspire me anymore.

That said, there is a multi-chap sequel set six or seven years from the closing of this. It's eighty five percent written and I don't know if I want to finish it or not. If I do decide to go with it, I'll post the first chapter within the next week or two. After that there's also a one-shot Christmas fic that I hope to post in time for the holidays, but aside from that I really can't say. _Running Scared_ needs to be finished too and I plan to finish it; when I will do so is another question entirely.

Thank you again for your support; it means the world to me.


End file.
